PR ^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 










Class V'ij^h 
Book_ 



, IN 4 

1 — ; V. 



Copight:N°_ 



x: 



.-n 



CDEflilGHT DEPOSIT. 






TSIE 



"NE'ER 1)0 WEEL;' 



COMEDY DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, 



BY 



^^- S. G-ILBIEIRT. 



THE PROPERTY OF 



E. .A., SOTI3:ElK.lSr, Comea.±aii.- 



All Rights Reservkd. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by E. A. SOTHERN, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



?) 



^ 



Mk. Seton (of Dritmfcyry). 

Gerard Seton {his son). 

Jeffery Rollestone {a vagabond). 

Captain O'Hara {a retired merchant-sailor). 

Richard Quilt {Mr. Seton's discharged secretary). 

Jakes {a hitler). 

David {O'Hara' s gardener). 

Marion Callendar {a wealthy widoiv). 

Miss Parminter {a distant connection of Mr. Seton's). 

Jessie O'Hara {O'Hara's niece). 



Act I.— a Ruined Watermill, near O'Hara's cottage. 

{Three Months' Interval between Acts i and 2). 
Act n. — Library at Drumferry. 

{One Night's Interval between Acts 2 and '2). 
Act III.- Interior of O' Hara's cottage. 



Date. — The Present Day. 



ACT I. 

Scene. The bank of a river, with boat-house l. The river 
(indications of which are seen from the front) is supposed to 
run diagonally across the hack of the stage from 2 e l, until 
it is lost in the cloth. At the back (r c) is a picturesque 
ruined watermill — the wheel of which is so situated as to 
appear to dip into the river. The access to the mill is from 
a platform on its right, raised some six or eight feet above 
the stage, and masked by rockwork and shrubs. It is 
accessible from 3 e r. There is a rough (but easily practic- 
able) natural descent from the platform to the stage. 
Captain O'Hara's cottage r. 
Captain O'Hara 15 discovered fishing, from the hank. 

O'H. Bother the fish, I say. These here rivers, 
with a strong six-knot stream in 'em, don't give a trout 
time to catch sight of the fly, much less rise to it. Ah ! 
give me trawHng for my money ! 

Enter Quilt. 

Quilt. Good morning, Captain O'Hara. 
O'H. Good mornin', Mr. Quilt. 
Quilt. Any sport. Captain O'Hara ? 
O'H. Devil a bit, Mr. Quilt. 

Quilt. Never mind. They say there's as good fish 
In the river, as ever came out of it, Captain O'Hara. 



O'H. So Ihere may be, for anything I've done to 
prevent it, this mornin' Mr. Quilt. 

Quilt. Don't you think your fly's rather large. 
Captain O'Hara ? 

O'H. No, I don't, Mr. Quilt. The trout are 
travelling express, and when trout travel express they 
like the names of the stations printed big. If the fly 
was too small it might try their eyesight, Mr. Quilt. 
No, no ; there can't be any mistake about the fly, for 
I made it myself. It's a fly I wouldn't take anything 
for. (Showing a very large and clumsy fly.) 

Quilt. It's a fly you won't take anything with. 

O'H. And how's Mr. Seton to-day? [Putting up his 
tackle.) 

Quilt. I can't say, Captain O'Hara. Mr. Seton 
and I have parted company. 

O'H. No ! 

Quilt. Yes. I resigned the secretaryship last night. 

O'H. And what was that for ? 

Quilt. It's a very painful matter, Captain O'Hara. 
He got it into his head that there was something wrong 
with my accounts, and he had the impertinence to say 
that, if I didn't leave the house that minute, he'd kick 
me out of it. So of course I resigned. Mr. Seton 
never liked me. 

O'H. No, my lad, he never did. He used to say 
you were so underhanded. 

Quilt. But you stood up for me, Captain O'Hara ? 

O'H. In coorse. Tom O'Hara's not the man to 
stand by and hear an old chum abused, without 
putting in a good word for him. No, no. " He's a 
sneaking fellow, and I can't trust him," says Mr. Seton. 
" Granted," says I. " He is sneaking, but he's got a 
wonderful head for accounts." " But he's such a con- 
founded liar," says he. " Granted again," says I. 



"He do lie, but he writes the best hand in the county." 
And so you do, my boy. {Shaking Quilt's hnnd 
heartily.) 

Quilt. I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Captain 
O'Hara. 

O'H. Not a bit. I always stand up for a friend ; 
not but what I may seem odd times to be going against 
him. But that's only my cunning. If you want to gain 
your end never contradict flatly. Pull up short and snap 
goes your hawser. Pay out a bit before you belay, and 
you may hold on with a packthread. You see [winking), 
betwixt you and me, I expect Lord Dunveggan is goin' 
to put me on the Commission of the Peace one of these 
days, on Mr. Seton's recommendation, and I don't 
want to offend him. 

Quilt. I hope Miss Jessie's pretty well. 

O'H. Well, she's a bit down-hearted. She's going 
with her mother to London to day, and she don't like 
leaving me. She don't know anyone in London to 
speak of, and — " Oh, uncle, it'll be so lonely," saj's she. 
" Granted," says I, " it will be lonely, and very like 
you'll be treated unkind, and you'll fret and cry a good 
deal, I dessay, and with reason ; but London's a fine 
place for getting on. Look at Whittington ! " But 
that reflection didn't seem to cheei: her up. 

Quilt. Captain O'Hara, I wish I could get Miss 
Jessie to like me better. 

O'H. I don't think you will. 

Quilt. If you could bring yourself to speak a word 
for me, perhaps she might be brought to think more 
kindly of me. 

O'H. I don't know. I don't think it's likely. If /was 
a pretty young gal and you asked me to marry you, I'd 
see }'ou hanged first, and I don't believe I would then. 
Only, mind you, if I was a pretty young gal. 



Quilt. But why, Capt. OHara ? 

O'H. Well, in the first place, a young gal looks for 
a good looking husband. Now you ain't good looking, 
are you ? 

Quilt. No, Capt. O'Hara, I'm afraid I'm not. 

O'H. I'm sure you're not. Then a young gal looks 
for an agreeable husband. Now your dearest friend 
can't say you're agreeable, can he ? 

Quilt. I try very hai^d to be agreeable. 

O'H. So I've remarked, my lad, but nature's too 
many for you. You've many good points — you've a 
rare head for timber — and for valuations and such like, 
I don't know your equal. But you ain't agreeable. 

Quilt. I don't know what to do, I'm sure. Here 
she comes. If you'd only speak a good word for me — 

O'H. My boy, I'll do what I can. 

Enter Jessie fivm cottage. 

O'H. Jessie, my bird, come here. Here's Mr. Quilt. 
You know Mr. Quilt ? 

Jes. Oh, yes, uncle, I know Mr. Quilt. 

O'H. He's just been kicked out of Mr. Seton's 
house, because there's something wrong with his 
accounts, and he's very downhearted about it, poor fel- 
low. Come -say awordto comfort him. He's very 
fond of you, Jessie. 

Jes. Oh, uncle, how can you ? 

O'H. Just so- how can I ? (to Quilt) What did I 
tell you ? 

Jes. I know nothing of Mr . Quilt — and its like his 
impertinence to think of such a thing. 

O'H. Just so — it is like his impertinence. 

Quilt. But Miss Jessie — don't decide rashly — hear 
me out — its only fair. 



O'H. True. Fair play's a jewel. Hear him out, 
Jessie, and don't be rash. 

Jes. Mr. Quilt, don't speak of it again. You've no 
right to say these things to me, when I tell you I don't 
want to hear them. 

O'H. There's a good deal of truth in that. 

Quilt. But if I don't speak again, you won't hear 
half of what I've got to say. 

O'H. Well, come — that's reasonable, too. 

Jes. Mr. Quilt, if you want me to speak plainly, I 
will do so. I do not like you, and that's the truth, 

Quilt {despondinsly). Nobody seems to like me, and 
I'm sure, I can't think why. 

O'H. That's what / say ! " He's such a disagree- 
able looking young man," people say, " True," says I. 
"but what's looks?" "But he's such a dull dog." 
"True, again," says I — he's as dull as ditchwater 
— but his mother's a lady." Bless you, I've stood your 
friend, over and over again ; but people won't have you 
at any price. Come, Jess, if your box is packed, I'll 
have the trap put to, and drive you over to the station. 

[Exit O'Hara into cottage. 

Quilt. Miss Jessie, I know what this means. This 
is because of Mr. Gerard Seton. 

Jes. What do you mean. 

Quilt. Miss Jessie, I hate anything mean or 
underhanded, and it's my duty to tell you that I've got 
a seci'et of yours. 

Jes. {alarmed). What secret .' 

Quilt. I've found out, by the merest accident in 
the world, that you've been writing letters to that fellow. 

Jes. Mr. Quilt ! 

Quilt. Yes, don't deny it, for he tias a bundle of 
them in his bureau. Well, he left the key in it one 
day, and— well, I read some of them — just to see if I 



8 

could believe my eyes — and I thouglit it my duty as an 
honourable man to tell you. 

Jes. Mr. Quilt — you dared to read my letters ? 
Your conduct is shameful, and I despise you more than 
I can say, You are a coward to say these things to me 
— do you hear ? — a mean and pitiful coward ! 

Quilt. Miss Jessie, when a gentleman's in love, 
he'll do anything mean and contemptible. He's cut 
me out, and I hate him for it. He means you no 
good, and I hate him for that. I a coward ? Why I 
should like to see somebody kick him ! A coward ? 
Why, I could hear that he'd been poisoned with 
pleasure ! (Gerard has entered, mid overheard these last 
few lines. Quilt becomes aii'are of his presence, but, affecting 
not to see him, pretends that he was only repeating words used 
by someone else.) " Yes, I could hear that he'd been 
poisoned with pleasure and satisfaction," says he. " I'll 
not hear Gerard Seton abused like that," says I. " He's 
hasty, but he's a gentleman to the backbone, and I 
won't hear a word against him." (Turns round and sees 
Gerard, who carries a small portfolio.) Dear me, Mr. 
Seton, I was not aware that I was overheard ! 

Ger. Is this fellow annoying you ? {To Jessie.) 

Jes. Oh, yes— he has frightened me dreadfully ! 

Ger. Very good. Now sir, attend to me. I know 
you to be a dishonest vagabond — so I've no hesitation 
m speaking plainly to you. If you dare to address this 
young lady again, civilly or uncivilly, I'll come back 
from wherever I may be, and break every bone in your 
body. 

Quilt {jvith suppressed fury). Mr. Gerard Seton- -you 
be civil. Do you hear ? You be civil. I know what 
I'm talking about — I know more than you think. So 
take care. [Exit Quilt. 

Ger. What does the scamp mean ? 



Jes. Why, he has read some of the letters I sent 
you — you ought to have been more careful. (Gerard 
moves tofolloi'j him). No, no — you mustn't go after him. 
Now, promise me you won't — at least, not now. After 
all, what does it matter ? 

Ger. Not much, indeed — the letters are innocent 
enough, poor little woman ! (strohing her head). Why, 
you've been crying ! 

Jes. a httle. Oh, Mr. Seton. I thought you 
were going to let me go away without saying good 
bye to me ; and— and— I was a little donkey to think 
that, wasn't I ? What have you got there ? {alluding io 
the portfolio). 

Ger. I'm making a sketch of the old mill — I'm going 
to finish it now. 
Jes. Is it for me .' 
Ger. Well, no — it's promised — 
Jes. To whom ? 

Ger. To my cousin, Marion Callendar. 
Jes. Put it away — I don't want to see it. I'd 
rather not look at it. 
Ger. Why not ? 

Jes. Because— because — Oh, Mr. Seton, I wish you 
had not kept my letters ! 

Ger. My dear Jessie, I vv'ish I had never had your 
letters. 
Jes. Why ? 

Ger. Because, my dear little woman, I had no right 
to let you send them to me. I am older than you are, 
and I ought to have known better. But you were a 
child when you began to write to me, and they were 
such good little letters — and I could not foresee what 
would happen —it began so harmlessly. I never thought 
how it might end. 

Jes. It has ended by my lovmg you very dearly. 



10 

Ger. My dear Jessie, I'm not a heartless cold- 
blooded scoundrel, though I'm a very vain foolish and 
thoughtless man — and what you have told me touches 
me very deeply — very deeply indeed. It was so plea, 
sant to be the confidant of all your little hopes and 
fears — so very, very pleasant — that I thought only of 
that, and I am terribly ashamed of myself. I am a poor 
man, and heavily in debt, and when I marry I must 
remember that. So, little woman, try and think of me 
as one who has done a very foolish thoughtless thing, 
and who is very sorry and very much ashamed. 

Jes. {with suppressed emotion). I am not angry — you 
have always been good and kind to me. I had no 
right to love you — but I couldn't help it — you never 
said one word to frighten me, or put me on my guard — 
you — you treated me with respect, and that is why I 
let myself love you. If it had been otherwise I should 
have despised and hated you, and my heart would not 
be breaking now— but you were good and kind and 
gentle— and oh, Mr. Seton, it seemed so natural to love 
you [breaking dotvn). 

Ger. My dear little woman, love is a luxury that a 
poor man in my position can't afford. If he wants a 
wife, he must take a rich one, and if he finds that he 
can love her ever so little, why he may think himself a 
very lucky fellow. 

Jes. Is Mrs. Callendar very rich ? 

Ger. What put Mrs. Callendar into your head ? 

Jes. You— you are painting that picture for her. 

Ger. Come, Jessie, I'll tell you all about it. Mrs. 
Callendar is very rich. She is a very dear old friend, 
and, in fact, we have been brought up together like 
brother and sister. I — I am very much attached to 
Marion Callendar. 

Jes. Are you going to marry her ? 



Ger. We have not come to that yet. 

Jes. But it tuill come to that ? 

Ger. {after a pause). Perhaps. 

Jes. {with a violent effort to control herself). Then, 
Mr. Seton— I hope you will be happy — I do, indeed. 
Don't think of me, if it gives you pain. I did not 
expect you to love me. I am not angry — not a bit 
angry. I can't help crying, but I shall be better soon — 
it was my fault, but I could not help it — it seemed so 
natural. {He is about to speak). Please don't say any- 
thing to me. I would rather say " good bye," like this 
{smiling through her tears). Good bye, Mr. Seton. I can 
bear up. I shall often think of you— it was my fault- 
God bless you. Good bye. [Exit Jessie sobbing. 

Ger. Poor little maid ! I'd give a good round sum 
(if I had it) to undo the mischief I have done to her 
peace of mind. Such a good little girl, and such good 
little letters, so frank, and simple, and straightforward, 
and so badly spelt ! I never guessed until a week ago 
that she cared for me. Thank God, there's no harm 
done after all. She'll soon forget me in London. 
But, by Jove, if I were a rich man and could afford to 

do as I liked, I don't know that I . Bah ! it's of no 

use to talk about that. I'm hard up, and we're all 
hard up, and Drumferry is mortgaged up to the crows' 
nests, so I shall make a reputable marriage with a 
young and wealthy widow, the requirements of society 
will be complied with, and the oldest family in the 
county will be spared the degradation of a mesalliance. 
And when a fellow's forced to marry for money, he 
may hold himself to be uncommonly lucky if he lights 
upon as good and loveable a woman as Marion 
Callendar. 
{During this soliloquy Gerard has been occupied in arranging a 

small portable easel . and in getting out his sketching materials. 



12 



Enter Miss Parminter. 

Miss P. Well, Mr. Seton, here we are at last, or 
rather here / am, for Marion is lagging behind to say 
" Good-bye" to the cottagers. How is the sketch 
getting on ? 

Ger. Rather lamely. I'm not quite satisfied with it- 
When does Marion's train start ? 

Miss P. At one o'clock. The carriage is to meet 
her here in half an hour. Ah, Mr. Seton, you will miss 
Marion sadly ! 

Ger. We shall all miss her, Miss Parminter. 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, be frank with me. 

Ger. Certainly, in what way ? 

Miss P. Come, I am a very old friend, so I think I 
may be trusted. You and she are both leaving Drum- 
ferry to-day — you may not meet again for months. 
Tell me the truth about Marion. 

Ger. Really, Miss Parminter, I ■ 

Miss P. Ah, Mr. Seton, this is a matter in which I 
am not easily deceived. I am a single woman with a 
great deal of spare time on m)^ hands, and I have made 
a study of it. 

Ger. Of what ? Of love ? 

Miss P. No. The yearning of two young hearts 
towards each other I do not call " love." It is some- 
thing too mysterious, too unearthly, too abstract for a 
word of four letters. I do not know, Mr. Seton, what 
the word is that I want — it should be a long word like 
climacteric — but whatever that word is, that I have 
made a study of. It is a fascinating pursuit, Mr. Seton. 

Ger. I am sure it must be very interesting. 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, it is absorbing. Ribald young 
men may laugh — they often do — but I care little for 
that. To be able to enter into the bosoms of one's 



13 

fellow creatures, and there listen, as it were, to the 
generally inaudible thrumming of their very heart- 
strings, is no light privilege, Mr. Seton. 

Ger. Indeed, you are very much to be envied. Miss 
Parminter. 

Miss P. I think so, too. It is a great gift. 

Ger. Well, Miss Parminter, supposing, for the sake 
of argument, that I do admire my cousin very much, do 
you think, you who are so well qualified to judge, that 
there is any chance for me ? 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, I will be frank with you. That 
our dear Marion loves, I am very sure. That is a great 
point to have established, for having ascertained that, 
there only remains the question " Whom does she 
love?" which is of quite secondary importance. 

Ger. {rather surpyised). Altogether insignificant ! 

Miss P. Exactly. Her symptoms are unmistake- 
able. She sighs much and eats little. If anything, it 
is the liver-wing of a chicken, which is always a signi- 
ficant joint, but more generally it is nothing. That 
she is affected by a recollection of the late Mr. 
Callendar I cannot believe, for, as you know, she 
married him against her will, and their married life was 
far from happy. I could mention many other symptoms, 
such as indifference about her back-hair, and a fidget- 
tiness during Divine service, and so forth ; but they 
would convey no meaning to you who have not studied 
the subject. But be very sure that she loves. 

Ger. Miss Parminter, you have found out my secret. 
I am very much attached to Marion. 

Miss P. I was sure of it. 

Ger. Now, what do you advise me to do ? It's so 
awkward — we are such very old and intimate friends. 
If I were to take her hand and ask her if I might call 
her " Marion" — well, that would mean volumes if we 



■were comparative strangers; but, situated as we are, it 
would smack of imbecility. 

Miss P. Excuse me, Mr. Seton, but that would 
depend entirely upon how it was done. If you took her 
hand casually — like that — {taking his hand carelessly) it 
would (in your case) have no particular meaning, but it 
yoti took it (allow me, Mr. Seton, for one moment— I 
won't hurt you) like that [taking his hand affectionately ; 
looking pensively into his eyes) the special significance of 
the action could not be misunderstood. 

Ger. Miss Parminter, if I felt certain that she would 
not laugh at me ■ 

Miss P. Have no fear. Leave it to me to ascertain 
diplomatically the state of her affections, before she 
leaves to-day. Will you leave it to me ? 

Ger. Indeed I shall be very, very much indebted to 
you. 

Miss P. Then I'll do it, and you shall know the 
result this very morning. 

Enter Marion Callendar. 

Mar. Well, Gerard, did you think I was never 
coming ? It takes so long to say " good bye " if you do 
it well, and I've made more friends during my six 
weeks' visit than I had any idea of. The old ladies 
I've kissed, the old gentlemen I've shaken hands with, 
and the little babies I've talked rubbish to ! They 
were all so sorry that I'm going. I must be a very 
charming woman, Gerard, 

Miss P. My dear Marion, that's exactly what Mr. 
Seton was saying when you arrived. 

Mar. Thank you, but he didn't mean it. I did. So 
this is the old mill you are sketching for me. 

Ger. Yes — it belonged to Waylett, the cornfactor, 
whose father and grandfather did a thriving trade with 
it years ago. But Waylett is ambitious, and he has 



15 

built a big warehouse, a mile below, with steam engines 
and hydraulic appliances, and deuce knows what, and 
so the old place has fallen into decay. 

Mar. Poor old mill ! You will laugh at me, I daresay, 
but do you know there is something very sad and solemn, 
too, and, very, very like the world, in the neglect with 
which the poor old-fashioned, broken-down old bread- 
winner is treated, now that the people who lived by it 
can do without it. 

Ger. It's the way of the world, Marion. How do 
you like the sketch ? 

Mar. It is capital, as far as it goes — but, my dear 
Gerard, it don't go iar enough. That old mill bears a 
moral that is worth telling. Tell it, Gerard. 

Ger. But how ? 

Mar. {considering). Aye, how ? Let me see — there 
should be a figure in the foreground — a figure that 
would point the touching lesson that it teaches. Now, 
what should that figure be ? 

Miss P. A broken-down old man, past work, and 
waiting for the end — whose friends have died around 
him, and left him here alone. 

Mar. No — a broken-down young man — a man of 
capacity, but without energy — a man with a brain and 
a heart, but who has trusted entirely to impulse from 
without, to set them going — and who, tliat impulse 
having failed him, has sunk down, down, into a slough 
of poverty and wretchedness, from which his own 
nerveless grasp, will never, never, raise him. 

Ger. Yes ; but that wants a model. I know a 
dozen loafing cads who would carry out your idea only 
too well, but you don't find them hereabouts. 

Mar. a cad, as you call it, wouldn't do. He must 
be a gentleman at heart, but weak and wavering — a 
weathercock, whose lot in life depends on the shifting 



iG 

of the wind — and see, see, Gerard, there is the very 
man we want ! 

(Jeffery Rollestone has appeared on the raised platform, 
and is seen leaning carelessly on a part of the woodwork, 
and throwing stones idly into the stream. His appearance is 
that of a man of thirty-five, poorly dressed in clothes that were 
once well-cut, careless, untidy and rather dissipated. 
Although his clothes are seedy, and his boots broken, and he 
shows very little linen, he has still the air of a broken-down 
gentleman. His linen is dean, though it is frayed at the 
cuffs.) 

Ger. Poor devil ! He looks hard-up enough at any 
rate ! 

Mar. Yes ; his dress is poor and ragged, but he 
wears it well. He was once a gentleman I'll warrant. 
Don't you think so Miss Parminter ? 

Miss P. Decidedly. Mark my words, that man can 
tell a story. 

Ger. I'll be bound he can— a good many ! Ten to 
one he's a swell-mobsman, but I'll use him for my 
sketch, and you and Marion can take a turn in the 
neighbourhood till I find out whether he is sober 
enough for you to listen to. 

Mar. Gerard, you are very hard on the poor fellow- 
Do — do you think he would take money ? 

Ger. I'm sure he would — if you left it about. 

Mar. Nonsense. I mean would he take payment 
for sitting ? 

Ger. I don't know. I think I can persuade him. 
At all events, I'll try. 

Mar. Then give him half a sovereign, and make him 
happy for a daj'. Come along, Miss Parminter. 

[Exeunt Marion and Miss Parminter. 

Ger. Happy for a day ? Half a sovereign would 



17 

make him drunk for a week ! [Hailing him.) Hallo, 
you sir ! 

RoL. Hallo, >'o« sir ! 

Ger. Have you half an hour to spare ? 

RoL. Well, yes, I think so. I've an appointment 
with the Attorney-General at three, and unless I'm 
summoned by telegram to stand for the county, which 
may happen at any moment, I'm at liberty till then. 

Ger. a funny dog, eh ? {Contemptiioudy.) 

RoL. A funny dog, am I ? Oh, I dare say I am. I 
never looked at myself in that light before. Yes, I see 
what you mean. There's a humorous side to every- 
thing, even to ruin, and when you asked me if I had 
half an hour to spare, wh)^ I suppose I felt it was 
pretty obvious that I had half a lifetime to spare if 
anybody wanted it ! Yes, I've half an hour to spare ! 

Ger. Do you feel inclined to earn half-a-sovereign ? 

RoL. Ah ! I don't know — it's very warm, and I 
never work in the day time. I should like half-a- 
sovereign, too — if only for the novelty of the thing —but 
it's very warm. {Coming down to stage). 

Ger. The fact is — I want a model. 

RoL. Then don't take me — I haven't turned out 
well. 

Ger. You see, I'm going to paint the old mill — 

RoL. Not before its wanted. 

Ger. And I have to introduce a figure. The mill 
is, as you see, a mere neglected ruin, and I want a 
loafing, broken-down, shabby-genteel, ne'er-do-weel in 
the foreground — 

RoL. And you want me to sit for him — you think 
I'm the very thing — don't apologise — so I am. 

Ger. [rather confused). Pardon me ; an artist does not 
expect to find exactly what he wants. He takes a sug- 
gestion and improves upon it. I don't want to repro- 

B 



duce you — I want a drunken, dissipated, good-for- 
nothing kind of fellow, and 

RoL. And when I'm "improved upon" you think 
I'll do. 

Ger. You misunderstand me. There is a certain 
picturesque recklessness about you — a jolly devil-may- 
care independence — which, with a little assistance from 
the imagination — 

RoL. I know what you mean — I've remarked it my- 
self. Not ten minutes since, as I was looking at my 
reflection in the stream (I took the liberty of allowing 
myself to be reflected in the stream — but it will wash 
out), I said to myself, "Jeff, my boy,— what is it that 
gives you that air of picturesque recklessness — that con" 
vivial look of refined dissipation that is so generally 
remarked ?" I think it must be something in the 
Lincoln and Bennett. I don't think Bennett was happy 
with the brim. 

Ger. Well, you take your bad luck good-humouredly, 
at any rate. 

RoL. Good-humouredly ? Yes, I think I'm good- 
humoured. A man in my fix should try and keep his 
temper — if he can. A touchy or irritable man — or a 
stickler for personal comforts would not enjoy himself 
in my line of business. Yes, I make the best of things 
— and bad's the best. Were you ever hungry ? 

Ger. Hungry ? Yes, often. 

RoL. Aye, I know — on the moors when the man with 
the luncheon hasn't turned up. I don't mean that — I 
mean hunger without a grouse-pie in the background — 
and with no distinct prospect of staying it, to-day, to- 
night, or to-morrow. Hunger that eats you, for want of 
something better, till you feel like an excavated Stilton 
with the walls crumbling in. Hunger like that tries a 
touchy man — he gets fidgetty and irritable, and thinks 



ig 

he's ill-treated. No— you want an even temper when 
you're on the tramp. 

Ger. Well, I wont detain you long. Throw your 
self on the grass, there, at the foot of that tree — so — ' 
now draw up the right leg, a little more, that'll do. 
{RoLLESTONE does as directed.) Can you smoke? (Gerard 
begins to sketch.) 

RoL. I don't know, I'll try (takes out pipe case, opens 
it, produces a black pipe, and lights it). Yes I can smoke. 

Ger. Then fire away. (Gerard pauses.) It's not 
quite what I want. 

RoL. I'll tell you where I'm wrong, the line of my 
right leg is a continuation of my left arm, and cuts the 
picture diagonally. Now if I bend the leg and roll over 
— like that — you get some valuable curves. 

Ger. By Jove, that's true. I — I'm only an amateur. 

RoL. So I see. 

Ger. You seem to know something of drawing. 

RoL. Yes, I've met it ; a nodding acquaintance, no- 
thing more. I know a good many professions in a 
" how-de-do, fine-day " sort of way. 

Ger. Why don't you work at one of them ? 

RoL. Exactly. I often ask myself that. I say to my- 
self, " You've had a good education, and by birth you're 
a gentleman : why the devil don't you go into Parlia- 
ment, or get a Colonial governorship, or direct pu.blic 
companies, or marry an heiress, or start a bank ? By- 
the-bye you don't know of a snug little semi-detched 
banking concern going cheap, do you ? 

Ger. You're talking nonsense. 

RoL. No ; I beg your pardon — your'e talking non- 
sense. Work ? What am I to work at ? Why, look 
at me! What are you painting? A hopeless vaga. 
bond. And why did you ask me to sit to you ? Be- 
cause you saw at a glance, that I am a hopeless 

B 2 



20 

vagabond. And how is a poor devil with that stamped 
on every line of his face— on every rag of his wretched 
clothing — to find work that a— a — that a man of edu- 
cation can accept ? Why the very dogs bark at me, 
damn them ! 

Ger. I should be sorry to seem to ask an imperti- 
nent question — but it is evident to me, that you — that 
you were once in a very much better position — that, in 
short, you were at one time a — a — 

RoL. A gentleman ! Don't have any delicacy in 
applying the term to me. I haven't. Yes — I might 
have ruined half the tradesmen in Regent Street, once. 
Oh, yes. I was a gentleman, God help, me ! I might 
have met you at dinner, whoever you are, and danced 
with your sister, whoever she is. Don't be angry — I 
danced devilish well ! 

Ger. It's hard, Iknow, to rise, after a fall — I should 
be glad to help you to retrieve your position, if it lies in 
my power to do so. 

RoL. Thanks, but it don't. 

Ger. That remains to be proved. Will you tell me 
your name ? 

RoL. No. Will you tell me yours ? 
Ger. Yes. Gerard Seton. 

RoL. Not the son of Seton of Drumferry, by any 
chance ? 

Ger. Yes, I am Drumferry's son. 
RoL. Good heavens ! Why, let me look at you •' 
Why, so it is ! It's little Gerard Seton ! 
Ger. You seem to know me very well. 
RoL. {mournfully.) Yes. I know you very well, now. 
I had you in my mind not an hour since, but like a fool 
I thought of you as a boy — Gerard Seton ! Why, 
haven't you made me out yet ? No, you wouldn't. I 
am Jefifery Rollestone. Don't you remember me at 
Harrow .' 



Ger. What ! Why it is— Jeflf Rollestone, by all 
that's wonderful ! 

RoL. (With affected cheerfulness.) Changed a bit since 
the old Harrow days. 

Ger. Yes ; changed indeed ! 

RoL. I was a bit of a swell, then. 

Ger. I am very sorry to see you in so sad a plight. 

RoL. So am I, believe me ! I begin to leel it now. 
Bah ! what does it matter ? I'm down on my luck, as 
many a good fellow has been before me. Bless your 
heart I'm happy enough — in my way. I take things as 
they come— when they do come, which isn't often. 
Hang it, man, there's no time like the present. Yester- 
day was a hundred years ago ; to-morrow a hundred 
years hence. I was born when I woke this morning ; 
I shall die when I sleep to-night. That's my philosophy. 
I can't be worse off, and when a change does come, it's 
bound to be for the better. Have a cigar ? {Offering 
one of two cigars rolled up in a hit of paper.) Upon my 
soul they are not bad — Caruncho's Intimidads. It's my 
only extravagance. {With a forced laugh.) 

Ger. Jeff. Rollestone, don't try to humbug me. This 
show of indifference is forced, anybody can see that. 
You're in a bad plight, and you want help. 

RoL. I'm right enough. Under a cloud, you know, 
but that'll blow off Ha ! ha ! How's the hunting 
about here ? Stifiish country. {With an assumption of 
easy indifference.) 

Ger. Come, we were dear old chums at Harrow in 
the old days. You've helped me out oi many a fix ; 
why, hang it, you used to lend me money ! 

RoL. Yes. I remember. It seems odd, now, don't 
it ? But I don't wan't help. Harrow is past and gone, 
and many other good things with it. Let bygones go 
by. I'm right enough. 



Ger. You're about as wrong as you can be. You're 
an educated man, and by rights a man of good position, 
with claims to associate with none but gentlemen. You 
have no more right to force yourself into a class so 
much below you than a tramp would have to associate 
with men of breeding. It is pitiable to see you in this 
state ; it is worse than pitiable to hear you express a 
desire to continue in it. 

RoL. [moved). Oh, you're right, old fellow, of course- 
This is as bad as it can be ; but what can I do now ? I 
get bad fits of memory now and then, and one can't 
shake off the feelings of a gentleman all at once — they 
will crop up sometimes ; but still, take it all together> 

rough and smooth, I . Oh, damn the thing, let's 

change the subject. 

Ger. There was a woman at the bottom of this. 

RoL. Yes, don't talk of it. 

Ger. But if I don't talk of it I don't see how I'm to 
help you. Come, we're back again at Harrow, by the 
stile in Johnson's field ; we had no secrets from each other 
then, let's have none now. Tell me all about it ; was it 
long since ? 

RoL. Yes, ten years. 

Ger. Where ? 

RoL. At Brighton. 

Ger. Did she treat you badly ? 

RoL. No ; it was no fault of hers. I believe she was 
really fond of me. I was rather a nice-looking boy 
then, and dressed well ; you wouldn't think that, 
would you ? I fell in love with her. That may 
mean that I met her at a ball, danced three times 
with her, hung about the Pier when the band played, 
sulked when she flirted, and took my revenge by flirting 
too. Well, in this case, it don't mean that. It means 
that in her presence I was subject to an influence that 



23 

no magic in the old tales can match. It means that 1 
was changed from a hearty, healthy boy to a pale, 
trembling, nervous rag. I could scarcely speak in her 
presence, and I shook like a leaf when I met her. She 
■was only sixteen, but she saw what I suffered, and she 
took pity on me. I believe she loved me very dearly. 
At length her people found it out ; all Brighton had 
known it weeks before, and being poor as rats 
and proud as Lucifer, they forbade me the house. Well, 
we were finally separated. She fell ill, poor girl, and 
the doctors, who found out how the land lay, ordered 
her abroad as her only chance. I mooned about from 
town to town for a couple of years, when I heard that 
she was going to be married to a man, I won't trust 
myself to name even now ; and on the wedding day I 
went mad and drank myself into a red hot fever that 
lasted six weeks. When I pulled through I went 
abroad, played at Homburg and Baden, drank, — lost all 
I had, took to the stage, drank, — wrote for low-class 
papers, betted, drank,- marked at a billiard saloon, 
drank, - tramped, drank, — and here I am, fit for nothing 
better than to sit to my old chum as a model scamp, 
very much at your service, old man ; and after that 
long yarn I'll take a drink— your good health, Jerry 
Seaton, and may you pull through better than I have 
done. {Drinks from flask.) 

Ger. Now the only question is, what's to be done ? 

RoL. Nothing ; I'm too far gone for help. 

Ger. At least you want money ? 

RoL. Thanks, I'm not a beggar. I've earned half- 
a-sovereign— give me that and I'll be off. 

Ger. You'll not stir from this place until I've made 
up my mind what's to become of you. 

RoL. If there's an opening for a respectable scare- 
crow that knows his business 



24 

Ger. {suddenly). By Jove ! I wonder if you would ? 

RoL. Of course I would. Tell me oft' to my field, 
and I'll begin to-day. 

Ger. Nonsense. My father's secretary and agent 
has just left him. He asked me this morning to look 
out for somebody for him. The duties are light, and 
so's the salary. He's the kindest old man in the world, 
and he's never so happy as when he's pulling a poor 
fellow out of the mud. Come. What do you say ? 

RoL. Do I look like a private secretary ? 

Ger. No, I can't say you do — but you shall. My 
traps are in O'Hara's cottage, waiting for the cart that 
is to take them down to the station. I can fit you out 
in no time. 

RoL. No. I can't do it. I am well enough as I 
am. 

Ger. Well enough ? Think of her ! of what she 
would say to that. Come. Stop with us a week or so, 
and try how you like the work ; there's not much to do : 
I'm off to the South to-day, but you'll get on capitally 
with O'Hara, my father's bailiff. I'll go and look out 
some clothes for you, and you can follow me when 
}^ou've made up your mind. 

\_Exit Gerard into cottage. 

RoL. Aye — what would she think ? Oh, my darling, 
dead and gone to me, but living and loving a better 
man than I, if ever a thought of poor broken-hearted 
Jeff Rollestone saddens your gentle mind, think of him 
only as he was in the days that are gone ! The chance 
that this large-hearted, impulsive, foolish fellow offers 
me — have I a right to take it? I, idle, dissolute, and 
a vagabond ! How can I, bent with the burden of my 
shame, hold up my head among the blameless women 
of a cultured English home ? A gentleman again ! By 



25 

a strange chance a gentleman ! Gerard Seton, 1 take 
you at your word. The world will call you a fool for 
placing faith in such as I. I'll prove the world a liar ! 

[Exit into cottage. 
As RoLLESTONE goes off, Miss Parminter enters cautiously. 

Miss P. The man has gone into the cottage — you 
can come now, Marion. {Enter Marion). 

Mar. (going to the sketch and looking at it). Ah, that's 
better — much better. Don't you think so. 

Miss P. It is a work of art. Gerard Seton is, 
indeed, a surprising genius. 

Mar. Gerard Seton, a genius ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Don't 
be angry ,^ Miss Parminter — but you have put my poor 
humdrum cousin in such an entirely novel light ! 

Miss P. {surprised). Don't you think he's a genius ? 

Mar. No, indeed, I don't ! 

Miss P. {aside). Hum ! Curious ; I suppose she 
don't like geniuses. 

Mar. Gerard is much better than a genius. He's a 
thoroughly good fellow, and I have a very sincere 
regard for him. 

Miss P. (shaking her hand). Thank you — thank you. 
You have simpliiied my task for me. 

Mar. (surprised). What task ? 

Miss P. Marion, that man's wife will be a fortunate 
woman. 

Mar. His wife ? Gerard with a wife ! There's 
another point of view from which I never regarded 
him. But now that you mention it, I think he ought 
to settle down into a very fair husband, as husbands 
go. He's not too young, and he's not too good- 
looking. 

Miss P. There I don't agree with you. I think he 
s extremely handsome -though I own that he is 
looking very ill just now. 



26 

Mar. Ill ? I never saw him looking better ! 

Miss P. No. Hehasacolour — butitisahecticflush. 
His face wears a smile, but it is a sickly smile. His 
step is springy and elastic — but it is the elasticity of 
nervous agitation. Oh, Marion — my dear, dear friend 
— how — how can I most fittingly break to you the news 
with which my mind is charged ? 

Mar. [surprised). News ? 

Miss P. Gerard seeks a wife. 

Mar. a wife ? 

Miss P. No mere thoughtless girl — he is too sen. 
sible for that. Not a poor wife, but one whose income 
will supplement the deficiencies of his own. Oh, 
Marion, cannot you guess— cannot you guess ? 

Mar. My dear Miss Parminter, you don't mean to 
say 

Miss P. Yes, Marion, I do, I do. Tell me that 
you are not angry with him ! — tell me that you are not 
angry with me ! 

Mar. Angry ? No ! Surprised — very, very much 
surprised — yes ! 

Miss P. But you must have remarked his attentions 
— his affectionate solicitude ? 

Mar. No, indeed. Gerard is always kind and 
attentive to everyone — but I have seen nothing in his 
conduct to prepare me to expect such an announce- 
ment from you. 

Miss P. And now tell me — what shall 1 say to him ? 
For I have promised to let him know this very after- 
noon. 

Mar. Do you wish me to speak candidly ? 

Miss P. Quite candidly and unreservedly. 

Mar. You will not be angry ? 

Miss P. Angry? No! But I shall be very sorry 
indeed if your reply is unfavourable. 



27 

Mar. Then, Miss Parminter, as you want my un 
qualified opinion, I will speak quite frankly. I\Iy view 
of the case is that the difference in age alone should 
put anything like an engagement out of the question. 

Miss P. There is a difference of only a very few 
years. 

Mar. Perhaps, but I cannot take your view of the 
matter. I know Gerard well, and I know you too, and 
believe me. Miss Parminter — there is no disguising it — 
you and he are not suited to one another. 

Miss P. (bridling up.) Marion Callendar — if this is a 

joke 

Mar. Oh, Miss Parminter, I could not joke on any 
matter in which the happiness of so very old a friend is 
concerned. And for that very reason I must speak 
plainly. You have a good income, and— and (oh, pray 
forgive me) you are not in your first youth — he is still a 
young man, and he is poor. Ask yourself if it is probable 
— I will even say possible — that your married life can 
be a happy one ? 

Miss P. [with touching dignity). Marion Callendar, 
this is ver)' cruel of you. I don't think I have deserved 
this. You are right in saying that I am not in my first 
youth, that is only too evident. I am an old maid. I 
am candid enough to own that I am very sorry for it. 
But a young and attractive woman should, in pity, be 
careful how she jests on such a subject. You have 
had your laugh at me — but you have wounded me very 
sorely — verj', very sorely ! 

[Exit Miss Parminter. 
Mar. Why, what in the world does she mean ? She 

begged me to be quite candid, and . Oh, Gerard, 

I'm very much ashamed of you. It's too ridiculous — 
it's contemptible. Miss Parminter and Gerard ? Oh, 
it's impossible to treat it [seriously ! Ha ! ha ! ha '■ 



28 

Enter Gerakd from cottage. 

Ger. My dear Marion, what are you laughing at ? 

Mar. Gerard, I am very angry with you. 

Ger. I'm very sorrj' to hear that — on this day of all 
others. 

Mar. What is this nonsense that you've been 
putting into that poor young thing's head. She actually 
believes that you are in love with her ! 

Ger. (aside.) She's seen Jessie, and it's all over 
with me ! (Aloud.) My dear Marion, I am very sorry 
that this has reached your ears ; but believe me it is 
nothing serious. 

Mar. Come, tell me all about it. 

Ger. It began years ago — when she was younger — 
for you know we are not friends of yesterday. 

Mar. No, you have known her from childhood, and 
that makes it so much worse. 

Ger. When she first left Drumferry she asked me if 
she might write to me for advice, if any trouble came 
to her ; and of course I said " Yes " — how could I say 
no ? — and the letters came ; such innocent letters, 
Marion, so full of girlish simplicity — (Marion much 
amazed) — and she seemed to take such pleasure in 
writing to me, that I had not the heart to break off the 
correspondence. At last I found that the poor little 
woman cared for me, for in her last letter she told me so. 
I was very, very sorry, lor I would not have injured a 
hair of her head. 

Mar. (in blank astonishment.) The man must be mad ! 

Ger. I .am very sorry — heartily sorry. If I had 
foreseen the end I would most certainly not have en- 
couraged her to write to me. But there was something so 
touching in the implicit confidence she placed in me, 
and I suppose something so flattering to my vanity, 
that I had not the heart, until to-dav, to tell her that 



this state of things must come to an end. She is a very 
fascinating little bod)', I can tell you. 

Mar. Fascinating ! Well, there's no accounting for 
tastes ! She is intelligent, and shrewd, and amiable, I 
admit, but beyond that I am quite at a loss to see 
where her special attraction lies. 

Ger. [aside). Astonishing how unfair women are to 
each other. (Aloud). But, come, let's say no more 
about it. No harm has been done, and, upon my 
honour as a gentleman, she is as pure and as spotless 
as yourself. 

Mar. Oh, I've no doubt of that ! 

Ger. It is very unlucky that this little matter should 
have cropped up to-day, for I cannot help fearing that 
it may prejudice you against me when it is a matter 
of vital importance that you should think well of me. 

Mar. It was too bad of you to allow her to go so 
far ; but don't suppose I am seriously angry with you 
for a form of amusement which I simply cannot under- 
stand. 

Ger. Thank you, Mallie ; thank you, sincerely. You 
give me courage. Marion, we have always been very 
close friends, have we not? 

Mar. The best friends in the world. And so we 
always will be. 

Ger. I hope so, with all my heart and soul. 

Mar. Why, I have always looked upon you as a 
brother, and so I shall, as long as I live. 

Ger. No — not as long as you live. 

Mar. [alarmed). Why ? What do you mean ? 

Ger. Marion, there is a closer love than that — do 
you think you could give it to me ? 

Mar. Oh, Gerard ! 

Ger. Come— think how many years we have known 
one another — how we have trusted one another in every- 



30 

thing. How lew men and women start on their mar- 
ried hfe with so full a knowledge of each other — with so 
full an assurance that, as far as temper and tastes go, they 
will most certainly be happy ? Come, Marion, tell me 
that our regard, our affection for one another is not to 
remain where it is ? 

Mar. Oh, Gerard — what a pity — what a pity ! This 
unconstrained friendship of ours was so pleasant — so 
very pleasant. This is not kind — this is not fair. 

Ger. I am very unhapp)'. I believe you cannot 
love. 

Mar. I do not love, but I have loved. Not my 
poor husband, who, good man, as he was, I could do no 
more than respect. The love that was in me, I had 
squandered before I knew him, and when my father 
urged me to marry him, I was— in love — a bankrupt. 
Come, dear Gerard, let it remain on the old footing. 
You are very dear to me, my good cousin, and it would 
pain me very sorely if I doubted that I was equally 
dear to you. Come — be satisfied with this — I will 
marry no one else. Let it be as I have said, at all 
events, for the present ; and kiss me, like a dear old 
friend. 

Ger. So be it, then. (Sighing — he kisses her forehead). 
But I cannot give up all hope so easily. Think over 
what I have said — think it over, gravely and calmly — 
and when we meet again, time may have worked a 
change. 

Mar. Perhaps. Who can tell ? But in the mean- 
time, promise me this— that you will tell no one of 
what has passed between us to-day. Not even your 
tather, 

Ger. On my honour, I promise. (He kisses her again 
as RoLLESTONE ciiters from the cottage. He is dressed like a 
gentleman, and presents a marked contrast to his appearance in 



31 

the early part of the Act). Mallie, let me present to you a 
very old and dear friend, who has consented to take 
my father's secretaryship. Mr. RoUestone, Mrs. 
Callendar. 

[Picture — Rollestone and Marion recognise one another, 
and exhibit signs of suppressed emotion. Marion seems 
likely to faint, as Miss Parminter enters.'] 
Ger. Marion, what is the matter ? 

Miss P. Fetch some water — she is going to faint. 
(Marion becomes insensible). Oh Gerard, Gerard ; this is 
your fault ! 



End of Act I. 



ACT II. 

Scene. Library at Drumferry. Evening. Large French 
windows at angle of scene, rue and l u e, giving on to 
balconies. Door c. Mr. Seton discovered in evening 
dress, reading. He is a very old gentleman of pleasant and 
refined aspect. 

Enter Jakes with lamps. 

Mr. S. Has Mr. Rollestone returned yet ?. 

Jakes. Not yet, sir. 

Mr. S. Dear me ; he must have missed his train. 

Jakes. The train may be late, sir. There is a fair 
at Portlock to-day. 

Mr. S. True. Let me know, the moment he 
arrives. 

Jakes. Yes, sir. \_Exit Jakes. 

Mr. S. This state of suspense is intolerable. Three 
days, and not so much as a telegram ! If he only 
knew how much depends upon the success of his mis- 
sion — but it would never do to let that go out of the 
family, before the time. Well, if ruin comes, we must 
face it ! — we must face it ! 

Enter MisS Parminter. 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, is anything wrong .' 

Mr. S. No— no. I am anxious about Rollestone; 

he brings me grave news — grave news — and he should 

have been here before this. 



33 

•^ 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, you must compose yourself. 
At the worst, the consequences cannot be really 
serious. 

Mr. S. Clara, I can trust you, and I will tell you 
the truth. If Rollestone has been unsuccessful in 
effecting a further mortgage on Drumferry (and I confess 
I have little faith in his financial abihties), the old 
place, in which my family has lived and died, through 
ten generations, must inevitably come to the hammer. 
I owe ;^i 2,000, and I don't know where to turn for 

£500- 

Miss P. This is terrible news, indeed. 

Mr. S. Yes, terrible— terrible ! My only hope lies 
with Gerard and Marion. If he marries her, her 
money will free Drumferry, which I should, of course, 
settle upon her. They would live here, and I think I 
could count on them for an asylum in my old age. 
For, Clara, I am a very old man. 

Miss P. Not very old, Mr. Seton. 

Mr. S. Ah ? {Pleased). Well, well — perhaps not 
very old. We will say not very old. How is Marion 
after her long journey ? 

Miss P. Better. She will be down presently. 

Mr. S. Poor girl — poor girl. Gerard absolutely 
refuses to discuss the question, and I can get nothing 
out of him, except that he has some hope of success. 
But I am not an acute cross-examiner. (Pause.) I 
say, I am rather a clumsy cross-examiner. 

JIiss P. Indeed. I think you do yourself an injustice, 
Mr. Seton. li you cannot extract the truth, the Old 
Bailey itself might despair of doing so. 

Mr. S. Ah ? {Pleased.) Well, well— it may be so— 
it may be so. But do you think there is any chance 
for him ? 

Miss P. I don't know. I did not see her, you 



34 

know, between her departure from Drumferry, three 
months ago, and her return to-day. 

Wr. S. But surely, in your correspondence with her 
you have referred to the matter ? 

Miss P. Mr. Seton, on the day she left, I did 
attempt to sound her on the subject. It resulted in a 
particularly painful scene, to which I would rather not 
recur. I grieve to say that Marion's sense of humour 
so far misled her as to induce her to refer to the fact 
that I am elderly, and — and single. 

Mr. S. Ridiculous ! You elderly ? Why I'vi not so 
very old, and you're a girl to nie ! Why, let me see, 
you're not fifty. 

Miss P. [hurt). I am not thirty. 

Mr. S. Dear me, you surprise me ! Tut ! tut ! I 
wish Rollestone would come. He's a good fellow, a 
right good fellow ; but he has no head — no head. 

Miss P. I look upon Mr, Rollestone as one of the 
most delightful companions that good fortune has ever 
placed in my way. Amiable, handsome, accomplished, 
a fluent speaker, a rarely gifted artist, full of anecdote, 
brave, gallant as a knight of old — he is my beau ideal of a 
blameless gentleman in the very highest, noblest, and 
most perfect sense of that much abused word. 

Mr. S. Hallo, Clara ! 

Miss P. I don't care, Mr. Seton, you may laugh at 
me if you will, I am accustomed to be laughed at ; I 
hold it to be not only absurd, but downright wicked, to 
allow a false sense of so-called modesty to blind us to 
the beauties that a bountiful Nature has set before us 
for our gratification. Mr. Rollestone is entitled to rank 
with her very noblest works. 

Enter Jakes. 

Jakes {announcing). Mr. Rollestone ! 

Mr. S. (nervously). At last ! at last ! 



35 

Enter Rollestone, as from a journey. 

RoL. Good evening, Mr. Seton ; I must apologise for 
appearing before you in this condition, but Jakes told 
me that you wanted to see me immediately on my 
arrival. 

Mr. S. [with an affectation of ease). Ha ! ha ! Jakes's 
zeal must have prompted him to tell you that, for really 
there was no immediate hurry. Have you dined ? 

RoL. Thank you, I dined at Portlock. 

Mr. S. Then you will take some supper before we 
talk over business matters. No ? As you please. 
Well, and what news do you bring me ? 

RoL. I am very very sorry to say that I have not been 
successful. 

Miss P. Oh, Mr. Rollestone ! (In gnat distress.) 

Mr. S. (ivith assumed indifference). Indeed ? Your 
journey has been fruitless ? Well, well, happily it is 
not of much importance. 

RoL. Here is a letter from Mr. Penrose, your 
solicitor, which no doubt will explain everything to 
you. (Producing large envelope.) 

Mr. S. Ah ! Oblige me by reading it to me. 

RoL. With pleasure — only he desired me to tell you 
that it was of a specially confidential character, and 
intended for your own personal information. 

Mr. S. [uncomfortable). Indeed ? Ha ! ha ! For my 
personal intormation, eh ? These lawyers, Mr. Rollestone, 
carry their professional caution to a length which is 
a — a — simply amusing. Ha ! ha ! ha ! But I suppose 
we must humour them, Mr. Rollestone, I suppose we 
must humour them! 

[Exit Mr. Seton. 

Miss P. [with sentimental earnestness.) Mr. Rollestone, I 
cannot tell you how glad I am that you are safely home 

c 2 



36 

again. I began to be very, very anxious for you. Are 
you weary ? 

RoL. Not at all, I assure you. To a man who is 
used to roughing it, a few hours' run in the Limited 
Mail is a very small matter. Besides, I had a 
pleasant companion in O'Hara, who joined the train at 
Portlock. He has just been placed on the Commission 
of the Peace, and he can talk of nothing else. 

Miss P. Captain O'Hara a magistrate ! Mr. Seton 
is too good-natured. 

RoL. Oh! you mustn't abuse O'Hara— he and I 
are great allies. He has a niece whom he strongly 
recommends to my notice ; and who knows but that 
some day I may marrj' into the family. 

Miss P. Of that I have no fear. You have had 
great experience as a traveller, Mr. Rollestone ? 
RoL. Yes, considerable. 
Miss P. Abroad ? 

RoL. Well, no ; principally in England and on foot. 
Miss P. On foot ? How truly delightful ! 
RoL. Yes — very pleasant. 

Miss P. You see so much more of the country on 
foot — the cozy old cottages — the pretty peeps through 
leafy avenues — the quaint old village churches — the 
weather-worn market crosses — the — the — 

RoL. The beadles — the police-stations — the notices 
about vagrants — the parish unions^and the dogs. 

Miss P. Yes, 3-ou see those too, of course. Oh, 
Mr. Rollestone, I could live in the open air— couldn't 
you ? 

RoL. Well, I happen to know that I could ; but I'd 
rather not. 

Miss P. My idea of complete happiness is to pack 
up a bundle of the merest necessities, and start off, 
never knowmg in the morning where I shall sleep at 



37 

night ; taking my chance of what I can get to eat, and 
putting up with the homely accommodation of a quiet 
village inn. That, Mr. Rollestone, is my idea of perlect 
happiness. With an intellectual companion like — like 
yourself, one would never tire of such a life. Never, 
oh never ! [Sentimentally.) 

RoL. {gravel}'). Miss Parmmter, will you answer me 
one question, sincerely, truthfully ? 

Miss P. (much agitated). Yes, yes ! Oh, certainly ! 
(Aside). What in the world is he going to say ? 

RoL. Without the least reserve or the smallest 
equivocation ? 

Miss P. {earnestly). I think— yes, I think I may pro- 
mise that. Yes, Jeffery Rollestone, I'm sure I can ! 
RoL. Quite, quite sure ? 
Miss P. Quite, quite sure ! 

RoL. Well, then. Did you ever sleep for a week 
under a damp haystack ? 

Miss P. Good gracious, no ! 

RoL. Because I have, and I don't recommend it. I 
have tried it, and it has tried me — tried me very much, 
and, believe me, it's a mistake. If you want to travel, 
place j'our faith in Bradshaw, wire on for your bed, and 
don't turn up your nose in a Hotel Company, however 
limited. I know what I am talking about. I have 
been penniless for days at a time — dinnerless, supper- 
less, bedless. A tramp, Miss Parminter, amusingly 
miserable, and ridiculously hungry ! 

Miss P. Poor fellow {aside). And all this for no 
fault of your own, I am sure. 

RoL. Oh, I beg your pardon, it was very much my 
own fault. I allowed a disappointment, that most men 
would have whistled out of their minds, to sap my 
energies — to undermine my moral strength. I wanted 
resolution to make a stand against it. Misfortune a 



38 

burglar, who is always on the look out to break uito 
you. Keep your bars up, iron-plate your doors, put 
bells on your shutters, tell the police to keep an eye on 
him, and you are pretty safe. But if he manages to 
break in, in spite of precautions, treat him as a burglar 
should be treated : close with him, floor him, throttle 
him, if you can ; but don't cry out, " Take my nerves, 
my heart, my resolution, and my energies, but spare 
my miserable life !" Because, ^iss Parminter, life 
without those other advantages is not worth having. 

Miss P. I wish you could contrive to instil a little 
of your philosophy into Mr. Seton ! 

RoL. Now tell me the truth. This news that I 
bring him is of graver moment than he is willing to 
admit. Is this not so ? 

Miss P. I — I cannot deny it. But he is most 
anxious that the state of his affairs should not be dis- 
closeduntil the very latest moment. Mr. Rollestone, he 
is a ruined man ! Oh, what is to be done ? 

RoL. I am not given to gush, and I don't believe in 
the man who is, but if cutting off my two legs would 
place Mr. Seton on Jiis, he might amputate them to- 
night. 

Miss P. I am sure of it. Your devotion to Mr. 
Seton and his family is one of the most unaccountable, 
and, at the same time, one of the most touching cir- 
cumstances in my experience. 

RoL. Miss Parminter, suppose that through mis- 
fortune, deserved or otherwise, you had lost every 
penny you possessed, that your friends had given you 
up as hopeless, and had fallen away from you one by 
one, as friends will, until you found yourself absolutely 
alone in the world — a solitary outcast — with only your 
sense of shame and the recollection of happier days for 
3'our companions — without home, without food, without 



39 

even the very barest necessaries of existence. Say that 
when at your veiy worst and there seemed nothing for it 
but to make an end and have done witlr it, you found an 
unexpected friend in an all but stranger — a man of 
influence and social standing — who held out his hand 
to you to drag you from the slough into which you had 
fallen, and restore you to the position you had forfeited. 
What would you do for that man ? 

Miss P. I would work for him till I dropped. 

RoL. Take it, that in addition to all this, in his 
determination to place you in the way of earning an 
honourable living, he had even admitted you to the 
privacy of his own blameless home, and established you 
there in a confidential position — a dependent, indeed, 
in name, but in fact a dear and intimate and a trusted 
friend. What would you do for that man ? 

Miss P. [ivitli enthusiasm). Mr. RoUestone, I would die 
for him ! 

RoL. So would I. {Shaking her hand.) 

Miss P. (ra»ig' — aside). Poor fellow ! How bitterly 
he has suffered, and how noble is his gratitude to those 
who have rescued him from his degradation ! Oh, Jeffery 
RoUestone, I know a road that would lead _j'o;(, at least, 
to a snug home with a comfortable independence ; 
but so artificial is the constitution of the society in 
which we move, that I am forbidden to point it out to 
you ! [Exit Miss Parminter. 

RoL. Seton ruined ! This is sad news indeed ! It 
is terrible to groan under a weight of obligation and 
yet to be powerless to help at such a time — terrible to 
know that when the crash comes one can only stand by 
and idly wring one's hands with the rest. Why, Seton's 
collie could do as much to help as I ! There's not a 
hope on earth I'd not forego to be able to lend him a 
hand at this terrible time ! 



40 



Entcy Mr. Seton. He is pale and anxious, hut he endeavours 
to appear unconcerned. 

Mr. S. Mr. Rollestone, I — I have read Mr. Penrose's 
letter. Its contents are serious — certainly serious. I — I 
am going to place a great trust in you. 

RoL. I am very glad to think I deserve your con- 
fidence. 

Mr. S. Indeed you have been very valuable to me. 
I appreciate your good and earnest services, I assure 
you. I confess I don't know what I should have done 
without an able secretary at such a time, for in all 
matters of business we Setonsare a very muddle-headed 
race. 

RoL. Well, Mr. Seton, if my opinion had been 
asked, I should have said that they were singularly 
prescient and clear-headed. 

Mr. S. (pleased). Ah ? Well, I may be wrong, we 
will hope I am. I must admit that in selecting you as 
my secretary my son has shown remarkable discernment. 

RoL. I am sensible onl}' of his and your unbounded 
kindness. 

Mr. S. Nonsense. We Setons are a very selfish 
family. When we do a good action, we have a good, 
sound, worldly reason for it, depend upon it. Why, 
even now, I am going to take advantage of this sense of 
gratitude of yours (most uncalled for I am sure) ; but my 
maternal grandfather was in trade, and the retail blood 
in my veins teaches me never to neglect an opportunity. 

RoL. Indeed, Mr. Seton, you do yourself injustice. 

Mr. S. (pleased). Ah ? Well, well, perhaps I am 
rather hard on myself. lam glad to think I am. How- 
ever, to business ; Mr. Rollestone, I am a vei-y poor man, 
it is useless to disguise it from you, I — I am all but 
rumed. There is only one hope lor us. Gerard is, as 



f 



41 

you may be aware, very deeply attached to his 
cousin. 

RoL. To his cousin ? 

Mr. S. To Marion Callendar. (Rollestone much 
moved). You did not know tliis ? 

Rol. (agitated). No, Mr. Seton, indeed I did not know- 
it 1 I did not even know that Mr. Callendar was dead. 

Mr. S. You surprise me. Yes, he died three years 
since at Florence, and Gerard has been for a long 
time very much attached to Marion, who, by the way, 
arrived this afternoon. 

Rol. Mrs. Callendar here ! (In great surprise). 

Mr. S. Yes ; on a visit for some weeks. Now, I am 
extremely anxious that she and Gerard should hit it 
off. She is a very charming and accomplished woman, 
and she has what no Seton ever had — money and brains. 
(A pause, Rollestone is much agitated). I say the 
Setons never had any brains at all. 

RoL. (abstractedly). Yes. I understand. 

Mr. S. (disappointed). Oh ! Now Gerard is unac- 
ciiUntably close about it, and I can't quite make out 
on what terms they parted. My own imipression is that 
he has proposed to her, and that she has taken time to 
consider. You see, there is not much to attract her. 
We are not rich, and as a race we are not handsome — 
[pause as before) — I say as a race we are plain. 

Rol. (pre-occupicd). No doubt. 

Mr. S. Deuced plain. 
Rol. Yes — yes. I — I have remarked it. 
Mr. S. (disappointed). Oh ! Now, Gerard will be 
here to-morrow — and you are an old friend of his — and 
of hers. Come, say a good word for the boy — do what 
you can for him. You are young ; she will be interested 
in what )'ou say. I am a dull and uninteresting old 
dog, and what I say will only bore her. (Pause as 



42 

hefove). I say I am dull and uninteresting (pause), and 
I shall only bore her. 

RoL. {abstractedly). No doubt. 

Mr. S. {disappointed). Oh! Then will you undertake 
this little bit of diplomacy ior me ? 

RoL. Yes, yes, Mr. Seton, I — I will do my best. 

Mr. S. {rather stiffly). I have had the good fortune 
to find you in an acquiescing mood, Mr. Rollestone ? 

RoL. {abstractedly). Yes, I — I am in an acquiescing 
mood. 

IAk.S. {aside). D d acquiescing ! [ii.vj^ Mr. Seton. 

RoL. Marion free I And Marion here ! Here in this 
very house ! and here to remain for days — for weeks. 
The old hope of my heart here, and to be the wife of 
the man who has saved me ! And it falls to my lot to 
plead his cause — -to urge upon her every reason why 
she should forget me, who have cherished her memory 
for ten long years, and give it to him whose love is but 
of yesterday. Fortune has played me a sorry trick 
indeed. Bah ! what manner of man am I ? I owe a 
debt — but ten minutes since I was fuming under my 
inability to discharge it. Now, Jeff Rollestone, here 
is a chance to test this gratitude of yours. If it is but 
an empty sound, a high-flown commonplace, court your 
old love for yourself, and leave these, your stanchest 
friends — the one heart-broken, the other penniless. 
No ! your course is clear. But there must be no refer- 
ence to the past, or my resolution will fail me. Bah ! 
what have I to fear ? The days of our love are dead 
and gone, and much has passed since then. Between 
the child of sixteen and the widow of six-and twenty 
there is a wide gulf fixed, and Jeff Rollestone is hardly 
the man to bridge it over. No ! we must meet as 
though the past had died out of my heart, as it died out 
of hers — in merc}' to her — a}-e, and in mere}- to me. 



43 



Enter Marion. 



Mar. Mr. Seton ; are you here ? {Sees Rollestone). 
Mr. Rollestone ! 

RoL. {confused). Airs. Callendar. I 

Mar. Come, Jeffery. Don't let us meet like this. 
You must not call me Mrs. Calltndar. My name is 
still Marion. In that, at least, I am not changed. 

RoL. {with assumed ease.) Tlien, Marion, I am very 
glad to meet you. I did not know, until a few minutes 
since, that you were at Drumferry. 

Mar. I arrived a few hours ago. (Pause). Jeffery, 
we parted under very painful circumstances, and 1 
have much to say to you. Much that has been on my 
mind for many years. But I am a foolish woman, and 
I don't know how to begin. 

RoL. And I, too, have something to say, and it will 
put us both at our ease if I say it first. When we 
parted, I thought myself a broken-hearted man, and I 
believe I gave you a great deal of unnecessary pain. I 
hope you have forgiven me. 

Mar. Forgiven you ? What had I to forgive .' 

RoL. Now, Marion, let us come to a cozy under- 
standing. You and I were fond of one another as boy 
and girl — I believe we told each other as much — but 
your mother interfered, and from her point of view, she 
was quite right. You went your way, I went mine, 
and there was an end of the matter. So there let the 
matter end. It — it is strange how quickly we forget 
these things. 

Mar. (surprised and pained). Then things are soon for- 
gotten, indeed ! 

RoL. Yes. Well, now we are much older (at least, 
I am, I won't answer for you), and we see this in its 
true light. We see how perfectly right your mother 



44 

was to separate us — we see that now, don't we ? 
(Pause). I say, now that the scratch is healed — the 
scratch that we inexperienced young people mistook 
for a gash — now that that has healed over, and we've 
forgotten all about it, we see how right, how very right 
your mother was to separate us. 

Mar. (hittevly). Yes, we see that now ! 

RoL. Because we really did not know each other. 

Mar. No, we did not know each other ! 

RoL. Then let us be very good friends indeed — very 
excellent friends — and let us agree that this friendship 
is so very pleasant and satisfactory in every way that 
we wouldn't change it for anything else on any account. 
Shall we settle it so ? 

Mar. {sighing). Yes, we will always be very good 
friends. 

RoL. That's well. It is very kind of you, very kind 
indeed. 

Mar. I had no idea, when we last met, that you 
knew Mr. Seton. 

RoL. I did not know him then, but I knew his son. 
I knew Gerard. 

Mar. Indeed .' 

RoL. Yes. He and I were at Harrow together, and 
very close and dear friends. I am very sincerely 
attached to Gerard. I was a very poor man when he 
gave me his father's secretarj-sliip. 

Mar. I knew that you were poor. 

RoL. Yes, your mother made that quite clear to 
you. (Hurriedly) She was right, quite right ; but I refer 
to a condition compared with which my poverty was 
affluence. I was all but starving ! 

Mar. Gerard has a very kind and generous heart. 

RoL. (earnestly). Thank 5'QU, Marion, thank you very 
heartily (taking hey hand). You have given me great 



45 

pleasure. I — I am, of course, deeply interested in the 
happiness of a man to whom I owe so much. 

Mar. No doubt. It is but natural and right that 
you should be grateful to him. {With some hesitation.) 
Gerard is an intimate friend of yours ; has he — has he 
spoken to you of me ? 

RoL. No. But his father has told me that Gerard 
loves 3'ou very dearly. Indeed, I believe that Gerard 
himself has told you as much. 

Mar. He has. 

RoL. Now — come, Marion — be frank with me — 
with what result ? 

Mar. With no result. 

RoL. With no result as yet ? 

Mar. With no possibility of result. 

RoL. I am deeply grieved to hear this. Is there no 
hope for him ? 

Mar. You are, no doubt, much attached to your 
friend ? 

RoL. Very much attached. 

Mar. (bitterly), I am sorry to say what will evidently 
give you very deep pain ; but — there is no hope. 

RoL. None ? 

Mar. None. 

RoL. Come, Marion, don't be angry with me ; but 1 
am not going to let the matter drop so easily. I take 
the very deepest interest in the future of both of you 
— more, perhaps, in your own future than you are dis- 
posed to believe. 

Mar. {bitter!}'). It may well be so ! 

RoL. Then bear with me, if, in the interests of you 
both, I urge you to think of the very best points in his 
character, and to make ttie most of them. He is still 
young — he is a right good fellow, and he bears an old 
and honoured name. He is not a rich man ; but you 



46 

are rich. You have known him all his life — you and 
he have been as brother and sister. Think how well 
you know him, and how comparatively little you can 
know of another man. All these things plead for him. 
Come, Marion, by our old regard for each other, think 
kindly of him as he deserves. 

Mar. (coldly). Gerard Seton has an eloquent advo- 
cate ! 

RoL. (warmly). Gerard Seton has an enthusiastic 
advocate, and one who hopes in his heart that you can 
give him hope. Forgive me, Marion, if I have said too 
much. 

Mar. Mr. Rollestone, I am pained and hurt by what 
you have said, to a degree that scarcely leaves me 
mistress of my words. It is hard and cruel of you to 
say these things to me ! 

RoL. (surprised). Hard and cruel ? 

Mar. Yes. If the old time be dead and gone, so let 
it be. Let it never be referred to between us. I have 
no desire to dwell upon it. But I do not like this 
championship of a man who wishes to marry me, to 
come from you. It may be vanity, pique — call it what 
you will — but it is galling to hear you, who once pro- 
fessed a regard for me, advocating the cause of a man 
who, but for the deadening lapse of time, you would 
have regarded as a detested interloper. I am a woman, 
Mr. Rollestone, and this hurts me, 

RoL. Marion, for God"s sake, let the old time go by. 

Mar. With all my heart. It is not pleasant to 
remember. I was a simple, foolish child when you 
told me that you loved me, and {contemptuously) I 
believed you ! 

RoL. I spoke in good faith. I deserved to be 
believed. 

Mar. Perhaps. But see what a wrong you would 



47 

have done me. See what a life-blight you would have 
brought upon me— you, loving and tender for a year, I, 
loving and tender for a life ! 

RoL. Indeed, Marion, you do me an injustice. I 
did not forget so readily. But Gerard Seton . 

Mar. Do not speak to me of Gerard Seton. I have 
refused Gerard Seton because there is but one man on 
earth whom I would not refuse, and Gerard Seton is 
not that man. Let that suffice. I will hear no more 
on that subject. Gerard and I are very good cousins, 
and very good cousins we will remain. 

RoL. Marion, you try me sorely. I am a careless, 
idle, irresolute man, and by an effort which is strange 
to me, I have nerved myself to speak to you en this 
subject. It has cost me much, and thus I am repaid- 
It is not just. 

Mar. Is it just to me to force me to say unwomanly 
things to you ? Is it right that you should so goad me 
tolorgetfulness of myself, and remembrance of none but 
you, that I have no resource but to tell you that I am 
fool enough to love you as in the time that is gone. 
There, the words are out. I am a headstrong woman. 
I cannot carry out a plan that involves smooth speak- 
ing. I cannot put my words into masquerade. You 
have brought this avowal on yourself; make the best or 
the worst of it. Pity me or ridicule me, whichever you 
will, but for God's sake, if you come to me at all, do 
not come with another man's name in your mouth. 
Speak to me of yourself, or be silent. 

RoL. If I am not mistaken, you gave him some 
hope. 

Mar. I gave him no hope. I told him that it could 
never be. You cannot know the pain you have given 
me. Many years ago you told me that you loved me, 
and I believed you. To-day you tell me that you did 



48 

not love me, and I do not believe you. I will not 
believe that the passionate utterance of those days 
was a lie — that the mad despair when my parents 
took me away from you was' a triumph of aimless 
hypocrisy. I will not believe that the long-drawn 
mfsery which was known to all who knew you, long 
after we had parted, was but the sequel of an elaborate 
scheme of objectless deception. Tell me, am I right 
in disbelieving this ? 

RoL. How can I answer j^ou ? \^'hat can I say but 
that as I seemed to love, so indeed I did love ? What 
can I say but that as I loved then so do I love now, 
and so shall I love to the end ! 

Mar. [incredulously). To the end ? 

RoL. {passionntely). Yes, to the end ! For I have 
fought with this love, and I have found that it is in- 
vincible — I have wrestled with it, and I have found 
that it is irresistible — I have sought to kill it, and I 
have found that it is eternal ! I have loved j'ou, and I 
have loved no other woman, as I hope to live. 

Mar. {hittevly). I can believe that this love of 3^ours 
is of hard}' growth, for it would seem that it can co- 
exist with a desire that I should marry your friend. I 
compliment you on its vitality. 

RoL. I have borne so much for its sake that I can 
bear your bitter words now. I pleaded for my friend 
because I had promised — because I held it to be my 
duty to do so. For myself I took no thought, for I 
had no hope. You have kindled a dead hope into life ; 
and, duty or no dut}', I have words but for myself. In 
my weakness, I yielded to my love, in my strength, I 
still yield to it ! Idly loving you — living but for that 
love — living on that love — when it was taken from me, 
I yielded up ail that was true and manly, and earnest 
in mv nature. When it went, the best that was in me, 



49 

went with it. I became hopeless, soulless, and de- 
graded. Marion, forgive me lor the deceit I practised 
on you, for the love of you is my very breath — the 
only flower in the tangled weed-grown garden of mj- 
misdirected life ! (They embrace.) 

Mar. Jeffery, we will be happy now ; there is none 
between us. I am rich, and mistress of myself. I 
only live to repair the wrong I did you. No one can 
part us now ; oh, my love ! 

RoL. No one can part us, now ! I have love for 
none but j'ou. 

Mar. {rising and going to door). Jeflfery, for the life 
that I am to lead — for the new-found hope of life, I 
thank you. Dear Jeffery, from my soul, I thank you ! 
Oh, Jeffery, I have been so unhappy — I have been so 
unhappy ! My life has been a lie, and I have wearied 
under it — but the sun rises on it now, and the past ten 
years are gone as a tale that is told ! 

[Exit Marion. 
RoL. At last! at last ! Shall I wake from this, I 
wonder, and find myself back in my vagabond life — an 
idle, ill-conditioned, aimless waif! It might well be: 
many a time when at my worst, I've dreamt such 
dreams as this — and woke to find myself shivering 
under a haystack ! It cannot be true — It cannot be 
true ! 

Enter Mr. Seton. 

RoLLESTONE slioK's agitation at his entrance. Mr. Seton's 
manner is hurried and anxious. 

Mr. S. Rollestone, you have seen Marion ? You 
have spoken to her of Gerard ? Is it not so? 

RoL. It is so. 

Mr. S. Well — well — and what does she say ? Eh ? 
Rollestone, every hope I have in the world is centred 

D 



5° 

on her and on him. She — she spoke kindly of him, did 
she not ? 

RoL. Yes. 

Mr. S. I knew it— I was sure of that. Well, tell 
me — tell me. I want to know the best and the worst. 

RoL. Mr. Seton, be patient with me. I have a 
difficult task to discharge. 

Mr. S. Patient 1 Mr. Rollestone, you cannot know 
how I am situated, or you would see the irony of j'our 
request. I implore you to tell me, without delay or 
equivocation, what took place between you. 

RoL. I spoke of your son — I urged eveiy argument — 
but, although she has a sincere regard for him — a very 
deep and sincere regard for him — that is all. 

Mr. S. Good God, Mr. Rollestone, then we are 
lost — utterly ruined and undone — and the old place, 
with all that is in it, must go to the hammer ! Oh, Mr. 
Rollestone, you are not playing with me ? 

RoL. You cannot suppose that I should speak 
otherwise than earnestly in a matter in which your 
prosperity and his happiness are so nearly concerned. 

Mr. S. No — no. I do not suppose that— but I met 
her as she left you — she was crying — but she told me 
that she was very happy. I find it difficult to reconcile 
that with a deliberate and hopeless rejection of an 
old and valued friend. 

RoL. I must beg your forgiveness for what I am 
going to tell you. I loved your niece, many years 
ago. 

Mr. S. (in gnat surprise). Mr. Rollestone ! 

RoL. When we met, I endeavoured to stifle that 
love, for your sake and for his ; I so far succeeded as to 
bring myself to urge Gerard's claim upon her with the 
earnestness of an advocate whose heart is in his cause. 
She told me that it was useless. She then told me, to 



51 

my unspeakable surprise, that lier old love for me was 
yet alive. 

Mr. S. {tyemhling with rage.) Mr. RoUestone, I am 
utterly at a loss to express my astonishment, my amaze- 
ment, my indignation at your statement, I — I placed a 
confidence in you, and you have betrayed it ; I trusted 
you, and you have forsaken j'our trust. 

RoL. Mr. Seton, I have told you what took place, in 
the fewest possible words. If I were to explain myself 
at length, I think you would jvidge me more fairly. 

( going ) ■ 

Mr. S. Stop sir. RoUestone, don't let us part like 
this — I have been kind to you ; Gerard has been kind 
to you — have we not ? 

RoL. I am free to confess that I owe you a debt of 
gratitude I can never hope to repay. 

Mr. S. Wrong, wrong, my dear boy — you can repay 
it now — you can repay it twenty-fold ! I am not 
accustomed to refer to benefits 1 may have conferred ; 
if I do so now, it is under the pressure of the most 
urgent necessity ; j'ou say^you owe me a debt — you do ! 
you wish to repay it — you can ! RoUestone, this union 
was in a fair way of accomplishment, when he and I 
rescued you from your forlorn and pitiable condition. 
Is that act of kindness to prove our ruin ? And is it fit 
that you, of all men, should be the instrument by which 
our ruin is to be worked ? Come, RoUestone, ask your- 
self this, and we are saved. 

RoL. (agiiaUd). Mr. Seton, you ask much of me — too 
much ! The debt I owe you is a heavy one indeed, but, 
after all, it is finite, and the price you would have me 
pay is infinite. Marion Callendar has given me her 
love ; it is a sacred and solemn trust, and I may not go 
Irom it. 

Mr. Seton {passionately). Then, sir, I have only one 

D 2 



52 

word to say : Leave my house at once — at once ! I 
have shown you a kindness which should have ensured 
the gratitude of the veriest reprobate. It has failed to 
ensure yours. Go, sir, you have ruined us. I hope I 
shall never see you or hear of you again. 
Exit Mr. Seton tremhling with passion. During this speech 
the light of the modeyator lamp has died out, and the moon- 
light through R. c. window supplies the only light on the 
stage. 

RoL. So the end is at hand ! What am I to do. 
My duty. Aye, but duty is a tool that, from long dis- 
use, I handle clumsily, and who knows against whom I 
may turn it ? Marion has given me her love — have I 
a right to forego it ? H-Jve I a right to say to her, 
" There is none who needs your love as I need it, but 
there are those to whom your wealth is life and death, 
take your money to them, and with it the love that 
I have hungered for these ten long years"? No! 
And yet Gerard loves her — he is a right good fellow— he 
should make her a true and worthy husband, and he 
has saved me ! Yes, he has saved me, and I repay his 
good deed by robbing him of the woman who, but for 
that deed, would have married him. There is only one 
thing certain, I must leave Drumferry to-night. Seton 
has made that clear enough, and once away from this, 
a cool head and a quiet pulse may help me to see my 
way to the right thing to do ! 

During these lines Rollestone has sauntered to the balcony 
(r u e). As he finishes this speech he sees the windoiv lead- 
ing to the balcony (l u e) slowly and cautiously open. He 
stands by, watching attentively, as Quilt slowly enters 
through the window, looking stealthily about him. 

Quilt. So far so good — every light in the house is 
out, there's not so much as a black-beetle stirring ! Ah, 



53. 

everything is as it used to be in the old time ! Its a touch- 
ing thing to come upon it again, and like this, too ! 
And there's the bureau in which that devil keeps his 
letters — curse him (tries it) ! Locked ! Ah, he never 
locked it when I was his father's secretary ! No, no — 
he trusted me ! It must be a pleasant reflection to my 
successor to know that I was trusted, and he isn't. I 
shall have to fall back on these — (producing skeleton 
keys), though I don't know much about using them, and 
I don't like to ask. It's a delicate question to ask ! 
(proceeds to pick lock — Rollestone takes a chair, unseen by 
him, and watches his proceedings). That wont do — stop a 
bit — I've got it now — There ! (desk open) What's this ? 
Unpaid bills ? (taking out a huge file filled with papers), 
and what's this — Receipts (takes out a small file with two 
or three papers on it): There's a dishonest vagabond ! 
Hallo! here are the letters, sure enough — just where 
he always leaves them, (takes one and opens it — reads) " My 
darling — " yes, damn him, that's right enough ! (reading 
letter with his hack towards Rollestone. " My darling,"' 
she never said half as much to me ! 

RoL. I beg your pardon — are you looking for anj'- 
thing ? 

Quilt. Who's there ? (much alarmed and startled — 
crams the letter he was reading into his trousers pocket). 

RoL. The very question I was going to ask you. 

Quilt (assuming an air of recklessness). Now, look 
here — I am not going to be trifled with. 

RoL. You are quite right — you are not going to be 
trifled with. (Produces a pipe case, which closes with a loud 
snap. He holds it as if it were a pistol — which, indeed, 
Qvi-LT takes it for.) On the contrary, if it is any satis- 
faction to you to know it, you are going to be treated 
very seriously, indeed. 

Quilt. How, sir? (Much alarmed.) There's no occa- 



54 

sion to use a pistol. I'm not a common burglar — I'm 
a man of honour — though I admit my presence here, at 
this hour, does seem to call for some explanation. 

RoL. Well, at the first blush, there is an indistinct- 
ness — a want of context, if I may so express myself — 
in your presenting yourself in Mr. Seton's library at 
this hour, which makes it difficult to grasp the full 
value of the situation. 

Quilt. I see what you mean. 

RoL. Thank you. You see^when I find a stranger 
breaking open my employer's desk at midnight, why 
that is an isolated fact which (prima facie) does seem' 
as you say, to want explanation. In fact, I don't see 
how we are to get on without it. 

Quilt. Mr. Rollestone, I will be quite frank with you. 

RoL. Do Fire away — i{ you don't, I shall. 

Quilt. I am Mr. Richard Quilt, Mr. Seton's late 
secretary. 

Rol. Oh. Didn't you understand that you were 
discharged ? 

Quilt. Yes, yes. Mr. Seton made that quite clear. 

RoL. Then to what shall we attribute your presence 
in his library to-night ? Shall we say force of habit ? 

Quilt. Mr. Rollestone, between a discharged secre- 
tai"y and his successor there should be no secrets. There 
is a young lady at the bottom of this— a young lady to 
whom I am sincerely and devotedly attached. That 
young lady has listened to the malignant overtures of 
a gilded snake. 

RoL. As women will ! 

Quilt. Exactly. Now, do you know the name and 
address of that snake ? Gerard Seton of Drumferry ! 

RoL. What ! 

Quilt. Gerard Seton. He has beguiled her into a 
correspondence — he has a dozen and more of her let- 



55 

ters — and the villain threatens to publish them, unless 
she listens to him, and throws me over. What do you 
say to that ? 

RoL. I say that it's a lie. 

Quilt. A lie ? Look here! One, two, three, four 
— sixteen of 'em. I've waited for weeks for an oppor- 
tunity of getting at them, but the windows have always 
been fastened, and my chance didn't come till to-night. 

RoL. I don't think much of it now that it has come. 

Quilt. Don't judge me harshly. If you have ever 
loved a girl with all your heart, and you had a rival, 
you'd do any dirty thing to gain her. Wouldn't }'ou, 
now ? Come — as a gentleman, wouldn't you ? 

RoL. No — I think not. (Pause.) Now attend to 
me, and if you move right or left, you're a dead man. 
{Pointing the pipe case at Quilt). Throw ms that bundle 
of letters. 

Quilt. No, no, Mr. RoUestone, you're asking too 
much. 

RoL. I'm not asking more than I intend to enforce 
[pointing the pipe case at him). Throw me those letters. 

Quilt. You're a nice kind of secretary to go about 
with a loaded pistol in your pocket ! There, damn 
you ! {Throws him the bundle of letters). 

RoL. {aside — contemplating them). Oh, Gerard, Gerard, 
I'm sorry for this ! 

Quilt {eagerly). Read them, read them, you'll see 
that I've spoken the truth. 

RoL. Thank you, but they are not addressed to me 
{puts them into /lis pocket). 

Quilt. Now— what are you going to do to me ? 

RoL. I will show you (pointing pipe case at him). In 
the first place empty j'our pockets. 

(Quilt empties his coat pockets). 

RoL. Call out tlie articles, one by one. 



56 

Quilt. A pocket-handkerchief. 

RoL. Yours. You may keep it. 

Quilt. A piece of rope. 

RoL. Mine. Throw it here. (Quilt throws it to 
Rollestone). 

Quilt. A complete angler. 

RoL. Yours. I don't fish. 

Quilt. A box of live bait. 

RoL. Yours. 

Quilt (pi'oducing a heavy life presevvey). A light cane. 

RoL. Mine. Throw it here. (Quilt, furious, is about 
to hurl it). Not too hard. {Qui-lt tosses it to him with a 
muttered oath). Thank you. 

Quilt. That's all. 

RoL. Very good. Now take off your coat. 

Quilt. Come, come; a gentleman's wardrobe is 
sacred. 

Rol. I think you'd better. (Quilt takes it off, and 
thrnos it to him.) Now j'our waistcoat. {He does as 
directed.) Now take off that pair of 

Quilt. What, sir? 

Rol. Don't be alarmed — boots. Now, turn your 
back to me, and put your hands behind you. (Quilt 
does so. Rollestone makes a " clove-hitch " in the cord, and 
puts it over Quilt's wrists — securing them). There. 

Quilt. You devil ! 

Rol. Not at all. This strap is for your ancles. (Hi 
straps Quilt's ancles.) There ! now you're harmless. 

Quilt. Are )'ou going to give me into custody ? 

Rol. I don't know. I'm going to think you out. 
(Sits smoking, and contemplating Quilt, zvho stands uncom- 
fortably). Now shall I detain you, or shall I let you go? 

Quilt (eagerly). If you detain me, all about those 
letters is bound to come out. 
Rol. True. 



57 

Quilt. Gerard Seton will lose his chance with the 
heiress. 

RoL. No doubt. 

Quilt. The young girl who wrote these letters — her 
character will be gone for ever. 

RoL. Your arguments are convincing. You may go. 

Quilt (surprised). Scot free ? 

RoL. Scot free. 

Quilt. Come, that's handsome. 

RoL. No thanks ; you can go. 

Quilt. I'm sorry I spoke roughly. 

RoL. Don't mention it. / should have been annoyed 
if it had happened to me. (Pause.) Well, why don't 
you go ? 

Quilt. What ! tied up like this ? 

RoL. Yes — tied up like that ! 

Quilt. But, hang it, I can only hop ! 

RoL. Then, hang it, hop away ! 

Quilt. But anyone who sees me in this condition 
is certain to detain me. 

RoL. No doubt. That's exactly what I want. You 
see I'm in rather a delicate position. If I give you 
into custody, Mr. Gerard Seton's share in this matter 
(whatever it is) would certainly be made public, and he 
might not like that. By letting you go as you are, you 
will certainly be arrested by one of the keepers ; you 
will be brought before Mr. Seton or his son (who will 
be here to-morrow), and he can either prosecute you 
on the more serious charge or release you altogether — 
as he thinks fit. 

Quilt (in a rage). You cursed villain ! But for the 
accident of your being armed with a pistol, I'd have 
beaten your brains out before I'd have surrendered 
those letters ! 

RoL. Ha ! ha 1 no doubt ! But vou must neve r 



58 

expect to find me unprepared. {Opening pipe case and 
taking out pipe.) This deadly weapon and I are in- 
separable. 

Quilt. Done ! But I'll be even with you for this ! 
If I come well out of this fix, before I'm a week older 
I'll batten on your very heart's blood ! (He speaks these 
words melodramatically, then turns round short, hops to the 
window, and so off). 

RoL. {watching him from window.) Poor devil! There 
he goes across the lawn. Hallo ! he's down — now he's 
up again ! He looks perfectly spectral in the moon- 
light ! Now, Gerard Seton, is this fellow's story true ? 
Here are the letters sure enough, and in a gii'l's writing ; 
but I have only his word for what they contain. For 
aught I know they may be quite harmless, and admit of 
ready explanation. They may relate to a matter that 
is dead and gone ; yet, if they come out, there is an end 
of all hope for you. One thing, and only one, is quite 
clear. Whatever these letters may contain, they came 
into my possession by an accident and in my con- 
fidential position in his establishment, and it is my duty 
to place them in his hands, and in no other's. {Proceeds 
to seal them up in an envelo{>e.) 

Enter Mr. Seton, still in evening dress, Marion and Miss 
Parminter in peignoires. 

Mar. Oh ! Mr. Rollestone, we have been terribly 
frightened ! 

RoL. Mrs. Callendar, what is the matter ? 

Miss P. The man — the man 1 

RoL. What man ? 

Mr. S. I saw from my window a white figure hopping 
across the lawn in the moonlight. It seemed so 
extraordinarj' and unaccountable that we came to ask 
you if you knew anything at all about it ? 

RoL. A white figure hopping across the lawn ? 
Very extraordinarj' ! 



59 

Miss P. Ghostly, Mr. RoUestone — simply ghostly ! 
I cannot tell you how appalling it was ! Mr. RoUestone, 
it was no thing of earth ! 

RoL. I'll make inquiries at once. 

Mr. S. The room is in strange confusion. 

RoL. Yes ; I— I have been preparing for a journey 
{folding up Quilt's coat and zvaistcoat). Pray compose 
yourselves. I will make inquiries at once. At all 
events if the man has gone there is no occasion for any 
further alarm. 

Mr. S. Come, Miss Parminter, we are safe for the 
present. {Going.) 

RoL. (aside). Well out of that, at all events. 
Enter Captain O'Hara in great excitement, followed by 
servants. 

O'H. Stop, stop— Mr. Seton— Mrs. Callendar. I 
beg your pardon ; but as I was leaving your house 
just now to go home, Watson, your keeper, found a 
man, tied hand and foot, endeavouring to climb over 
the park fence. Watson stopped him, and dragged 
him into the lodge. He turned out to be Richard Quilt. 

Mr. S. Quilt ! My late secretary ! 

O'H. Yes, that's the man. They asked him what 
he was doing in the grounds at that time o' night, and 
as he couldn't give a satisfactory account of himself, 
they searched him ; and, oh, Mr. Seton — I'm well-nigh 
heartbroken — for they found on him a letter from my 
bird — my Jessie ! 

Miss P. He has often told me that he admired 
your niece. 

O'H. Aye ! But although the letter was found on 
him, it wasn't written to him. She despises him, as 
any girl would ; and the letter is as fond as it can be ! 
Mr. Seton, I want to know who that letter was 
wrote to. 

Mar. Are you sure of the writing .' 



6o 

O'H. Sure ? Why, how can I doubt it ? Lookee 
here, it's signed by her, and it speaks of me ; and as to 
her writing, didn't I teach her to write ? Look at it — 
read it ! 

Mar. [takes the letter and reads it). " My dear, dear 
friend." 

O'H. Tell me that's addressed to that skulking ape, 
Quilt ? 

Mar. (reading). " Why have you not written to me ? 
Sometimes I think that my letters only tease you, and 
then the world might be in ashes for anything I care ; 
but when I see you, you are so kind and gentle with 
me, that I want to write again and tell you everything 
that is in my heart. — Your loving, little friend, Jessie." 
O'H. Mr. Seton, I'm a rough customer — I ha'n't 
got my words rightly under control when my blood's 
up — and it's up now. There's none hereaway that my 
poor lass could care about except that smooth-faced 
son of yours ; and, mark this, as sure as I'm a man 
with two fists, I'll break his damned neck for him. 

[Mr. Seton sinks into a chair and covers his face. 
Mar. Captain O'Hara, you have my sincerest sym- 
pathy. The world looks lightly on such deeds. I do 
not go with the world. Mr. Seton, your son and I are 
very old and dear friends ; but if he is guilty of this 
act, I will never speak to him again ! 

Mr. S. Stop, Marion, stop ! — there is no proof— we 
may be mistaken. 

Mar. To whom else in this neighbourhood can this 
letter have been addressed ? 

RoL. (coming forward). Mrs. Callendar, that letter 
was addressed to me. 

(Marion horrified, Captain O'Hara furious. Mr. Seton 
takes RoLLEs tone's hand gratefully as the Act Drop 
falls.) 

End of Act II. 



6i 



'ACT III. 

Scene. A comfortably furnished, old-fashioned sitting-room 
in O'Hara's cottage, arranged for examination of Quilt. 
A Windsor chair l, a comfortable easy-chair r c, facing 
Windsor chair. A small writing-table with writing materials 
in front of easy-chair. Other seats about the room for 
witnesses, S-c. A small occasional table near r of easy-chair. 
David (O'Hara's gardener) discovered arranging the scene 
as described. To him enters O'Hara, dressed in his best, and 
rather important in manner. 

O'H. Well, David, is the court o' justice rigged ? 
Dav. Aye, Cap'en, as far as I can judge. I've 
arranged it just as you told me. There's a table and 
an easy-chair for your worship, them seats is for the 
witnesses and general public, and that 'ere Windsor 
chair is for the prisoner at the bar, poor chap. 

O'H. A Windsor chair for Mr. Quilt? No, no, 
David, that won't do — not in my house. The laws of 
hospitality must be respected, and no one shall ever 
say of Dick O'Hara that he took an easy-chair for him- 
self and told off a Windsor for a visitor. 

Dav. True, sir ; but I thought as Mr. Quilt is in 

custody 

O'H. Custody? What's that got to do with it ? By 
the law of the land every man is presumed to be 
innocent till he's proved to be guilty. I won't allow 
Dick Quilt to be treated like a felon in mv house, not 



62 

before he's proved to he a felon. Dick Quilt's in a very 
grave position, and I daresay he's anxious, poor chap. 
And when you're anxious you want to be comlortable. 
An anxious chap can't be easy on a Windsor. No, no. 
Place my table over there. Dick Quilt shall have the 
eas}' chair. 

(David moves the table so that it stands in front of the Windsor 
chair, leaving the arm-chair for Quilt.) 

O'H. That's better — it looks more friendly. Pool ! 
I wish this was all over ! 

Dav. So does he, poor chap, I'll go bail ! Don't be 
hard on him, your worshup. A misfortun' like this 
might happen to any of us — besides, Mr. Quilt and you 
was very good friends. 

O'H. Yes, I always stood up for Dick Quilt. But 
as a magistrate I've my dooty to do, and I can't allow 
private friendship to interfere with the course o' justice. 
Put that decanter near Mr. Quilfs chair, so that he can 
help himself, David. (David /;<^s a decanter of sherry and 
a glass on small table, r. of easy chair.) 

Dav. Ah, it's a grand thing to be a magistrate, your 
worship. 

O'H. So it is, David, when so be as you can work a 
day's reckoning. 

Dav. I hope you won't make a fool of yourself, 
Cap'en. Some beaks do. 

O'H. I'm not afraid o' that. There's a very good 
rule when you've got to deal with a point of law. Hear 
what both sides have to say, weigh the evidence care- 
fully, come to your own conclusion, and the reverse of 
that will be the law ot the case. Besides, Mr. Seton 
sent down to say that he shall be present at the exami- 
nation, and he'll set me right if I steer out o' my course. 
So there's no fear of mj' going very far wrong, David. 



63 



EiiUr Miss Parminter. 

Miss P. Good morning, Captain O'Hara. 

O'H. Your sarvant, ma'am. Proud and honoured 
to have your company on this melancholy occasion, 
ma'am. Your face is welcome as the flowers in May. 

Miss P. Thank you. (Aside.) He is really much 
improved. His manner is quite Grandisonian. (Aloud.) 
Mr. Seton, understanding that I should be present as 
a witness, requested me to tell you that he is extremely 
unwell this morning, and will be quite unable to be 
present at the prisoner's examination. 

O'H. (aghast). But, ma'am, you don't mean to tell 
me that I've got to work this affair on a dead- 
reckoning ? 

Miss P. I am not conversant with legal terms, but 
I think it is more than likely. Mr. Seton regrets very 
much 

O'H. Regrets very much ! But, look here, ma'am, 
I don't know anything about it ! I only got my com- 
mission as J. P. two days ago, and I never saw a beak 
— I should say a magistrate — sitting, since I was bound 
'prentice. 

Miss P. Mr. Seton desired me to add that as Mr. 
Rollestone, who is quite familiar with the course of 
procedure, will be present as a witness, he will no 
doubt afford you any assistance of which you may 
stand in need. 

O'H. (passionately). Mr. Rollestone ! I don't recom- 
mend Mr. Rollestone to show his face in my house, 
after the way he's treated my niece. I won't have Mr. 
Rollestone here, ma'am. He's a scoundrel, ma'am, a 
designing scoundrel ! 

Miss P. Believe me. Captain O'Hara, I fully sym- 
pathise with 3'our indignation. He is indeed a bold, 



64 

bad man. Yet as he is a principal witness against the 
prisoner 

O'H. I don't care. I won't have that man here. 
He excites me. I couldn't administer justice in his 
presence. I will not allow private prejudice to stand in 
the way of my dooty as a Justice of the Peace. (To 
David.) Are we ready to begin ? 

Dav. Quite ready, your worship. 

O'H. Then ask the prisoner if he'll be so good as to 
step this way. I'll work this here matter alone. 
David goes to door r., opens it, and Quilt eiiteys in custody 

of a keeptr, and followed by tiuo or three servants from 

Driimferry . He is placed standing in front of easy chair. 

Quilt. This is an unfortunate business, Captain 
O'Hara. 

O'H. Prisoner at the bar, I'm extremely sorry to 
see a young man of your apparent respectability in so 
disgraceful a situation. How are you, Dick ? {Shaking 
his hand.) Sit down. (Quilt sits in easy-chair and makes 
himself ccmfortahle. O'Hara goes to his seat on Windsor 
chair behind table.) Now, Dick Quilt — I mean prisoner 
at the bar — you are charged with having burglariously 
entered the mansion house of Drumferry, and therein 
maliciously, and, at the prompting of the devil, com- 
mitting a burglary. Now, prisoner at the bar, there is 
no nonsense about this court. This court is not par- 
ticularly well acquainted with its duties, having only 
received its commission as a magistrate two days ago. 
You and I, prisoner at the bar, have always been 
deuced good friends, and as you know a good deal 
more about these matters than we do, we shall take it 
as a personal favour if you'll just pull us up whenever 
you see us steering out of our course. 

•Quilt. I'm sure I shall be happy to do anything to 
assist you, Capt. O'Hara. 



65 

O'H. Thank you, Dick, I was sure of it, and if you 
and I don't manage, between us, to get at the rights of 
this matter, why the deuce is on it. Take a glass of 
sherry, Dick. Now then — what is the first thing this 
court does, eh, Dick .' 

Quilt. Well, if it was me, I should discharge the 
prisoner. 

O'H. Ah, but it ain't you, you know, is it ? Come 
now — no larks, Dick— help us out of this, there's a 
good chap. {To Miss Parminter), let's see, ma'am — 
the first thing he does is to plead, isn't it ? 

Miss P. I think it is extremely likely, Capt. O'Hara. 
O'H. That is your view ? 

Miss P. That is certainly my view. But I won't be 
sure. 

O'H. That is quite enough ma'am. A lady's word 
is law — and law is what we're here for. The first thing 
you do, Dick — I mean prisoner at the bar — is to plead 
guilty. 

Quilt. But I plead not guilty. 
O'H. Oh, I beg your pardon — you plead guilty. 
Quilt. I beg yours, Capt. O'Hara — I plead not 
guilty. 

O'H. Well, there you go, you see. If you're going 
to invent difficulties and obstructions to the course of 
justice, what's the use of your coming up here in 
custody ? 

Guilt. I shall be happy to help you when I can, 
but I must have an eye to my own interests. 

O'H. Very well, then there's an end of the matter. 
If you'd stood by me and pleaded guilty, I'd have got 
you off, somehow, but as you plead not guilty, hang me 
if I don't convict you. 

Quilt. I never told a lie yet, and I'm not going to 
begin now. 

a 



66 

O'H. Very well, have it your own way — only let me 
tell you this — you've got me into this fix, and you'll have 
to get rac out of it. What's to be done now ? 

Quilt. Why call the evidence to be sure. 

O'H. Evidence ? What evidence ? 

Quilt. Why, evidence that I was seen committing 
a burglary. 

O'H. Well, who saw you commit it ? 

Quilt. Oh, I'm not bound to give evidence against 
myself. 

O'H. Bound ! Well, no you're not bound, but you 
and the court have always been good friends, and there 
should be no secrets between magistrate and prisoner, 
and — lookee here, Dick Quilt — who saw you do it ? 

Quilt. I'm not going to criminate myself. 

O'H. [angrily.) I don't ask j'ou to criminate yourself. 
I only ask you, who saw you commit a burglary ? 
Surely, as a friend you can tell me that. 

Quilt. Why nobody saw me. 

O'H. (tlirowing down his pen resignedly.) Oh, very well, 
if you won't assist the court, I don't see how we're to 
get on. Upon my soul, I don't ! The case is adjourned. 

They move towards door. Enter Rollestone. 

RoL. Stop. 

O'H. Hallo, sir, how dare you show your face in my 
house ? 

RoL. I have evidence to give against this man. 

O'H. I won't hear it, sir. You — you are an infernal 
scoundrel. You're a disgrace to humanity. 

Miss P. Mr. Rollestone, if you have come here to 
find out whether Capt. O'Hara has any more lambkins 
in his fold j'ou have taken needless trouble. Captain 
O'Hara had but one. [Exit Miss Parminter. 

RoL. Pray reassure yourself— I have come for no 



67 

lambkins. I am here to give evidence that will convict 
this man without fail. 

O'H. I tell you, sir, I will not receive the evidence 
of a man with whom I am not on terms. That's the 
law, I believe ? {To Quilt.) 

Quilt. That is the law. 

O'H. Thank you, Dick. Dick Quilt, that man's a 
villain (indicating Rollestone). If he says you've 
committed a burglary, don't you believe him. 

Quilt {contemptuously). Captain O'Hara, I wouldn't 
believe that fellow on his oath ! 

O'H. {shaking hands with Quilt). Thank you, Dick — 
thank you. God bless you. {To Keepers.) Remove 
the prisoner ; the case is adjourned {exeunt Keepers with 
Quilt). And now, sir, that you and I are alone, per- 
haps you'll tell me what you mean by secretly ensnar- 
ing the affections of my niece ? 

RoL. {(istde). I suppose there's nothing for it but 
to face it out! {Aloud.) My dear O'Hara, don't be 
too hard upon me. Now I ask you, as a fine impres- 
sionable, susceptible old sea-dog, with a keen eye for a 
pretty girl — come, you know you have that — who would 
know your niece without falling in love with her ? Is 
is fair to expect a simple, loving, impulsive, affectionate 
nature like mine to be a match for the astonishing 
aggregate of charms with which that young lady is 
endowed. 

O'H. There's something in that. It isn't the falling 
in love with her that I find fault with — that's natural. 
It's the sneaking, underhand way in which you've, so 
to speak, circumnavigated her innocent young heart. 
I'll never see her again — never. 

RoL. Nonsense ! Don't be unjust to the girl. It 
was my fault ; 5/;^ couldn't help it. Now, I ask you, 
is it fair to expect a young and inexperienced girl to 

E 2 



68 

be proof against the battei-y of wily resource that such 
a practised hand as I am can bring to bear upon her ? 

O'H. There's a good deal of truth in that. You're 
a deuced good-looking fellow, confound you ! 

RoL. No, no ! 

O'H. But I say j'ou are. 

RoL. Very good, have it your own way — only, mind 
you, I don't agree with you. 

O'H. Never mind. I can forgive her. You've got 
an uncommon flow of small talk. Hang it, sir, you're 
a very pleasant companion ! 

RoL. Not at all. 

O'H. {furious). But, confound it, I say you are 1 
And a devilish clever fellow too ! Perhap's you'll con- 
tradict that ? 

RoL. No — I'm devilish clever ! 

O'H. Ah ! I thought we should get to something in 
time. Why even / liked you ! Hang it, I was very 
fond of you ! And if you'd only been open and above- 
board, I'd have given my right hand to see you spliced 
to my girl. But you shall marry her — do you hear 
me ? You shall marry her, or, by George, I'll commit 
you for Breach of Promise. I'm a magistrate, and I 
know the law. 

RoL. (aside). This is getting rather too warm to be 
pleasant. Never mind — I'm in the hands of Destiny 
— she can do what she likes with me. I've begun it — 
I must go on with it. 

O'H. Now, I ask you, Jeft Rollestone, are you pre- 
pared to marry her, yes or no ? 

RoL. Marry her ? To be sure I am. 

O'H. But at once — at once ? 

RoL. Of course — why not ? She's single, isn't she ? 

O'H. Single? Yes! (Puzzled). You're a most 
remarkable man. Why didn't you say j'ou were ready 
to marry her at first ? 



69 

RoL. Didn't I say it ? I believe you're right. I did 
Hot say it. It — it escaped me. 

O'H. Well, if you're going to do the right thing by 
her — that puts a different aspect on affairs. Why, my 
bird is the very wife for a good-for-nothing idle scape- 
grace like you. I've said so, over and over again. 
Shake hands, Jeff Rollestone. I'm sorry I was hasty. 

RoL. Not at all — don't name it. (Aside.) I don't 
know, Destiny, where you're driving to, but I suppose 
you know all about it. 

O'H. But, I say, I hear you've given up your 
secretaryship ? 

RoL. Yes. I — I've given that up. 

O'H. It's a singular thing, but when Mr. Seton's 
secretaries are kicked out of their berths, they always 
come and propose for my niece. Have you got any 
money ? 

RoL. Four and sixpence. Seton owes me a 
sovereign. 

O'H. Whew ! That's not enough- Never mind. 
I'm a warm man. I've saved money, and we'll all live 
here together. 

RoL. Certainly, if Edith has no objection. 

O'H. Edith? 

RoL. I mean your niece. 

O'H. Her name is Jessie. 

RoL. Edith is French for Jessie. 

O'H. Never knew that before. But why did she 
keep all this from me ? 

RoL. Oh, I insisted on it. 

O'H. Why ? 

RoL. Exactly. I often ask myself that. I say to 
myself, " Why not be open and above-board ? Why 
deceive the old man ? Why not declare everything ? 

She loves you " By-the-bye, she docs love me. 

doesn't she .■" 



O'H. Love you ? Why look at her letter ! {(>ro- 
ducing it.) 

RoL. Exactly ; you've read it, / haven't. " She loves 
you " Shall we say fondly ? 

O'H. {Referring to lettey.) Yes; I should say iondly. 

RoL. Exactly, fondly. Then why not admit it ? 
That is the question that I am continually putting to 
myself, and, upon my word and honour, without any 
result of any kind whatever. 

O'H. Jeff. Rollestone, was there ever any madness 
in your family ? 

RoL. I don't know. My grandfather was a hatter in 
a large way of business. 

O'H. I thought as much. Well, say no more about 
it, you're a right good chap, and I'm as pleased as 
Punch. Lord bless you, I love a wedding, and betwixt 
3'ou and me — betwixt you and me, I say — I don't know 
but what I mayn't be having one of my own, one of 
these days ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exit O'Hara. 

RoL. (looking after him) There are certain situations 
in which a man feels tempted to ask himself, why the 
Devil he was born ? I'm sure I don't know, I didn't 
want to be born. I took no steps to bring it about. I was 
there, but I wasn't consulted ; it's one of those liberties 
that parents do take with their children — they presume 
on their relationship. Here I am — five and thirty years 
old — half my life gone — best half, too — and except a 
suit of clothes, four and sixpence and a moustache, 
pretty well where I was when I began it ! So it all 
ends ! Back from the quiet peaceful time of hard work 
and dawning self-respect — back from the glimpse of 
what might have been — back to the old misery — the 
old squalor — the old ragged dog-life, with its ever- 
present shame and ceaseless self-reproach ! Gerard, 
old man, when tliis tale is told to you in the rough, you 



71 

will kick me out of your heart for a graceless hound 
who used the position you gave him to try and rob you 
of the woman you were to marry. So be it — I am sick 
of fighting against long odds. When you and she have 
been happy together for many years, and the old tur- 
bulent time of active love and feverish jealousy is left far 
behind, perhaps she will tell you all about the poor 
luckless devil who loved her so well — and who broke 
his heart for both of you ! Broke his heart ? The 
drivel of boys and girls ! Time's rough usage should 
have woven a pretty tough cuticle about my weather 
worn anatomy, by this time ! 

Enter Miss Parminter. 

Miss P. Capt. O'Hara — I am quite ready when you 
are {starts on seeing Rollestone), Mr. RoUestone ! I 
am pained and surprised to find you still here. 

RoL. Miss Parminter — I am afraid my conduct 
must appear very odd and inexplicable to you. 

Miss P. No, sir — you are but as I have found that 
most men are— you think it no shame to try and trifle 
with a simple woman's most sacred emotions — to you 
it is but a pleasant means of whiling away a trivial 
hour — you little think that the tune you have idly 
thrummed upon her very heartstrings may have incor- 
porated itself into her very existence. But so it is, Mr. 
Rollestone — so, but too often, it is 1 (sobbing). 

RoL. Miss Parminter, you have been kind and good to 
me, and I cannot bear that you should think so ill of 
me. I am not a heartless scoundrel — if you knew all 
you would not say so. I am going from Drumferry for 
ever ; but before I go I should like to put myself right, 
at least with you. For I am very heavy-hearted, and 
I think you might say that which would at least send 
me away in a happier frame of mind. 



Miss P. {inncJi agitated). Go on — 1 am listening. 

RoL. The good and gifted woman of whom you 
speak, I have loved as I shall never love again. After 
the disclosure of last night, I fear that I have for ever 
forfeited her esteem. My mouth is closed, and I may 
not explain. But whether she thinks well or ill of me, 
that love I shall carry in my heart to the end of my 
life. Will you believe this of me, Miss Parminter ? 
{Taking her hand.) 

Miss P. {deeply moved). Mr. Rollestone— Jeffery — {he 
seems tiiuch s«r{>rised at this form of address) — call me weak 
— foolish, if you will, but — I do believe you ! You are 
pardoned ! I know what young men are. I have 
studied them earnestly and devotedly ; and no true 
woman who knows them, and who loves earnestly, and 
with all her heart, can be severe on what is, after all, 
but a too common type of youthful folly. I may grieve 
for a lifetime, but I cannot frown for a day. Are you 
happy, Jeffery ? 

RoL. {embarrassed). But — I beg your pardon — its an 
awkward thing to have to say- -but I can't help 
thinking — its an extremely difficult and delicate thing 
to say— but I can't help thinking that you have entirely 
misunderstood me. 

Miss P. {alarmed). I have misunderstood you ? 

RoL. Yes. I have the very highest respect and 
regard lor you, Miss Parminter — the very highest 
regard — you have always been most kind to me, and — 
I am extremely soiry to have been so awkward as to 
have misled you, in any way— its quite unpardonable- - 
but I never aspired to be more than a very sincere and 
true friend to you, I — I was referring to Mrs. 
Callendar ! 

Miss P. {u'ith a violent efort to repress her mortification) 
So was I ! 



73 

RoL. Indeed ? I was mad enough to think — but 
your enthusiasm on behalf of your friend, misled me, 
and I fancied — (aside) — this is deuced awkward ! 

Miss P. (still speaking with an effort). I am an en- 
thusiast. It is foolish of me, but I can quite under- 
stand your mistake. I — I should have been more 
guarded (goes to door). Marion, my love ! 

RoL. (hurriedly). Miss Parminter, pray, spare me ! 

Miss P. Marion, my love — I want you, lor one 
moment. 

Enter Marion. She starts on seeing Rollestone. 

Marion. Miss Parminter ! I had no idea of this ; 
This is very cruel of you. 

Miss P. (almost hysterical). No, my dear, it isn't. 
You wouldn't say so, if you knew all. Mr. Rollestone 
is very sorry for the pain he caused you — he has told 
me so^ie can explain his conduct — he has told me so 
— he never loved anybody but you — he has told me 
so — and I'm a silly old fool (crying), and I ought to 
have known better; and - and he has told me so ! But 
don't say I'm cruel to you — you wouldn't say that, it 
you knew what has just passed — you wouldn't, indeed 
— oh, you wouldn't, indeed ! 

[Exit Miss Parminter soiijHg-. 

Ro . Believe me, Marion, I did not seek this meet- 
ing. 

Mar. (whose manner is hard, and cold, and matter-of-fact). 
I can quite believe that, Mr. Rolleston ; but now that 
we have met, is it not better to come to an understand- 
ing ? We misled one another yesterday, did we not ? 
The recollection of what had been gave an artificial 
vitality to emotion that, for all practical purposes had 
died out long ago. A night's reflection has proved that 
to me and, no doubt, to vou also. 



74 

RoL. {despondently). Yes ! It is a pity that our old 
regard for one another was ever referred to between us. 

Mar. a thousand pities. As you said yesterday, 
all that is at an end, and we see how foolish — how very 
foolish we were, and how right my mother was to 
separate us. For we did not know one another. 

RoL. Marion, I have nothing to say — ray mouth is 
closed. But have pity on me — I don't ask for more than 
that. Oh, Marion, my heart is almost gone, and hope is 
well-nigh dead within me ! 

Mar. I am sorry to hear that, because I have some- 
thing of a very earnest character to say to you. This 
girl — this poor girl, whose letter you laid claim to last 
night, you will act honourably towards her, will you 
not ? You will not take all this wealth of love from her, 
and give her nothing in return ? Above all, you will never 
let her know that you have played a double game with 
her, for if she loves you, as it would seem that she does, 
that will break her heart. 

RoL. You are very hard on me, but I cannot com- 
plain. I ask but one mercy of you, that you will leave 
me alone in my misery. The old life is before me, and 
I can face it. For God's sake let me go to my ruin my 
own way. Tell me that I have deceived you — that my 
professed constancy was a lie — that the story of my 
wasted life was a miserable hypocrisy — that I am but a 
shallow and hollow-hearted double-dealer, who looks 
upon such women as you, and such love as yours, as 
the playthings of an hour. Tell me this, and have done 
with me. Think of me as you will, but in mercy leave 
me to myself! 

Mar. Mercy ? What mercy have I received from 
you ? Now listen to me, JefTery Rollestone. I have 
seen the man upon whom that letter was found, he has 
told me a truth which vou, for some reason of vour own, 



75 

thought ht to keep from me. Tliat letter was written 
to Gerard Seton. 

RoL. Marion, I . 

Mar. Hear me out. For a reason which I do not 
care to inquire into, you thought it prudent to weigh 
your regard for my cousin against your love for me, 
and that love has been found wanting. Well, I am 
content to have been warned in time. I am content to 
think that I might have learnt this too late. I am con- 
tent to adopt your words of yesterday, and to say with 
you, we did not know one another, indeed ! 

RoL. Marion, to Gerard Seton I owed everything 
that I then possessed. In the blindness of his faith, in 
the utter kindliness of his kindly nature, he took me by 
the hand and raised me to the position I had forfeited. 
I learnt then that his hopes and the hopes of his house 
rested on his gaining your love. Was it for me to turn 
his good deed against himself? \\'as it for me, who 
owed him all, to take all from him ? 

Mar. You acted blindly. Three months since he 
would have married me. I then told him that I believed 
it could never be. Within a week I wrote to him telling 
him that he must never think of me as his wife, for 
{with emotion), oh, Jefferj', I had seen you, and the love 
that slept had wakened into life ! I was very sorry for 
him, for he had been to me as a brother, but my sorrow 
was wasted. {Bitterly.) He bore the blow bravely, 
indeed, for now he has a wife. 

RoL. Oh, forgive me — oh, forgive me! Marion — 
my own old love — have pity on the weak man who 
strove to be strong ! Have pity on the idle, self-indul- 
gent outcast, who, in the fulness of his gratitude, sought 
for duty and thought he had found it ! 

Mar. {softened). Had / no claim on this gratitude ? 
See of what a treasure you would have robbed me ; see 



76 

into what a life-long sorrow you would have plunged 
me! I, who had given you all that was in me. I, 
who loved you utterly and beyond all on earth ! 

RoL. God bless you, Marion, for the hope that is 
within me, and for the life that is before me ? {Embrace). 
Enter Gerard Seton. 

Ger. (surprised). Jeff. Rollestone — Marion? I 

(hesitating, then recovering himself ). Come, I have nothing 
to conceal from you. I have news for you — guess what 
it is ? 

Mar. That the deadly wound I inflicted has healed 
over ? That I have reverted to my old condition of 
a cousin with the brevet rank of sister ? That, 
knowing that I would not give you pain without giving 
pain to myself, you thought the best way of proving 
that I need have no anxiety on my account, was to 
marry a wife ? 

Ger. (taken aback). I thought I should have aston- 
ished you, but, by Jove ! you have astonished me. 
Yes, that's my news. 

Mar. Well, it was very self-denj'ing of you to make 
so great a sacrifice on my account. And when shall 
I have the pleasure of making, Mrs. Gerard Seton's 
acquaintance ? 

Ger. Without a moment's delay, {goes to door). My 
darling ! (Jessie enters timidly). This is my wife, 
Marion. 
^ Mar. (surprised.) Why it's Jessie O'Hara ? I don't 

think so much of your self-denial after all. (Kisses her). 

RoL. {interested). Jessie O'Hara ? Dear me, is this 
Jessie O'Hara ? I — I take a great interest in Jessie 
O'Hara. In fact, it's rather awkward, but this young 
lady is engaged to be married to me. (Jessie surprised). 

Ger. Some mistake. I think ? 



77 

RoL. No, there's no mistake. You've treated me very 
badly, Jessie, very badly indeed ; but under the circum- 
stances I forgive you. Is there any objection to my 
forgiving her on the cheek ? Thank you. {Kisses her.) 

Jes. {to Gerard), I'm sure I don't know what he 
means ! 

Mar. But, does Capt. O'Hara know that you are 
married ? 

Jes. Yes. Mrs. Callendar — I telegraphed to him 
last night to tell him, and that I should be with him this 
morning. 

Ger. We kept it secret for fear of my father's anger. 
But Lord Dunveggan, his cousin, died suddenly yester- 
day, leaving a will in his favour, and the Drumferry 
mortgages can be paid oft as soon as his Lordship's 
executors please. 

RoL. Gerard, you have robbed me of a very charm- 
ing little wife — but I'm even with you after all. {kissing 
Marion). 

Ger. {surprised) Why you don't mean to tell me — 

RoL. I did'ni mean to tell you — but under the cir- 
cumstances I don't see why I shouldn't. 

Ger. My dear Marion- — I can't tell you how de- 
lighted I am — you have the love of a much better fellow 
than I am, and one who will make you a much better 
husband. 

Jes. a much better husband ? 

Ger. {taken aback) Ha — hum— a much better looking 
husband, Jessie. 

Jes. I don't agree with you at all. 

Ger. Then let me see — Marion is the 

RoL. The old love of whom I told you. The hope of 
the old days has come to pass — the misery of ten 
years goes for nothing, and there is no happier man in 
the world ! 



Enter O'Hara, Miss Parminter, and Mr. Seton. 
O'Hara has an open telegram in his hand. 

O'H. I should think not, my boy— I should think 
not ! A pretty wife don't fall to a man's lot every day 
in the week ! 

Miss P. I should hope not, indeed. Captain O'Hara. 
It is only under the most imperfect form of civilization 
that such a state of things could be possible. 

O'H. And take my word for it, Jeff Rollestone, she's 
as good as she's pretty. There isn't a better girl in the 
country, though I say it who shouldn't. 

RoL. Not say it ? Why shouldn't you say it ? Its a 
pleasant thing to hear, from whomsoever it may come. 
Not that I wanted any assurance of it, for I've loved 
her these ten years. 

O'H. Ten years ? You dont say so. The slyness of 
some people. Why didn't you tell me all about it ? But 
never mind that now, you must congratulate me, I've 
been driving in a gig to Drumferry {significantly) with 
Miss Parminter. 

RoL. Well, what of that ? 

O'H. Nothing, only that a man who drives with 
Miss Parminter in a gig is a very lucky fellow — that's 
all — eh, Clara ? {turning to Miss Parminter). 

Miss P. Let us quit the flowery but uncertain paths 
of metaphor, which begin very well, but land us goodness 
only knows where ; in a matter of so much moment, one 
cannot be too distinct. It is possible that Captain 
O'Hara may, in time, win both my hand and my heart 1 

Mr. S. My dear Clara, I congratulate you with all 
my heart. 

RoLLESTON has been talking affectionately to Marion. 

O'H. I say— Jeff Rollestone— hang it all — not before 
Jessie! 

RoL. Oh she won't mind — she's a married woman. 



79 

O'H. I know she's a married woman, but that's just 
why she tcill mind. Its rather soon to begin that sort 
of thing, isn't it ? 
' RoL. What sort of thing ? 

O.H. When / was a young man, a decent husband 
only did that sort of thing, when his wife's back was 
turned. Never mmd, Jessie, my bird — /'// keep him 
straight. 

Jes. Keep Mr. Rollestone straight, uncle ? I think 
Mrs. Callendar may be trusted to do that. 

O.H. Mrs. Callendar ! 

RoL. Yes, O'Hara. I am going to be married to 
Mrs. Callendar. 

O'H. You villain! But you shan't marry her — I'll 
commit j'ou for Breach of Promise — I'm a magistrate, 
and I know the law. Jessie, my love, don't cry- he 
shall marry you. 

Jes. [laughing). But uncle, I don't think he can 
marry me, for I am married already. 

O'H. Married ? To whom ? 

Jes. To Mr. Seton. 

(O'Hara turns in astonishment to old Mr. Seton). 

Mr. Seton. Not to me, Captain O'Hara. I am 
not so fortunate. To my son. 

Jes. Why you have my telegram in your hand. 

O'H. {looking at it). Jessie Seton, born O'Hara, next 
time you telegraph to me to say you have been and 
married somebody, perhaps, to save mistakes, you'll be ' 
good enough to say who you've married. 

Ger. But surely the letter that fell into your hands 
— the last letter that I received from Jessie — must 
have made that quite clear to you. 

O'H. That letter made it clear ? As a source of 
fog and general bedevilment, the Banks of Newfound- 
land are a fool to it. 



8o 

RoL. Then let me clear the fog away. I took upon 
myself the ownership of that letter in the belief that in 
doing so I was helping to extract your niece and my 
friend from a very serious dilemma. That I was mis- 
taken, only goes to show that there is no duty para- 
mount to that which a man owes to a worthy woman 
who blesses him with her true and blameless love. 
That love, when it was mine, was the mainspring of 
my life. When that love went from me I died a social 
death. Marion, you have called me to life again — that 
life is in your keeping, and with it my honour, my 
courage, my manhood, and my love. 



Curtain. 



// 



i~i O 



